


Dance For Me

by SheegothBait



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AAAANGST, Brainwashing, Depression, Gen, Horror, Loss, Medical Experimentation, Moira creates Widowmaker, Murder, Other characters mentioned - Freeform, Physical Abuse, Psychological Torture, Seriously tho....MAJOR angst, Yikes, nonsexual non-con, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-10
Updated: 2019-06-02
Packaged: 2019-09-15 11:44:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 29,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16932672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheegothBait/pseuds/SheegothBait
Summary: Amiele dances to please people. It is her life, her love, her breath and livelihood. She feels most alive when she's on-stage. But when she is suddenly stolen away by a mysterious group of terrorists, she finds herself dancing to a very different tune, and this time, her life depends upon her perfect performance...A recounting of the Lacroix tragedy in graphic detail and what became of a defiant French dancer forced to kill for the first time.





	1. The Lost Swan

Amelie didn’t know how long she’d been here. It was impossible to tell; she had no windows in her cell, and the walls seemed to be soundproof. No amount of banging on them had drawn the attention of those holding her prisoner, and no amount of searching found exploitable cracks. The events leading up to this were kind of a blur; she remembered going out with a friend for drinks, getting into a tipsy argument, her friend leaving, and a stranger taking her place. She remembered the stranger; a Mexican young woman with skin the color of a latte and dark hair that fell past her shoulders just on one side, the other side of her head almost bald and sporting glowing purple cybernetics. They’d talked briefly but pleasantly over another drink, after which the woman had disappeared into the crowd. She’d felt nauseous, gone to the bathroom to throw up, and come out feeling even worse than before somehow. Her new acquaintance had intercepted her and offered to take her home, to which she agreed, the moon-sized headache inhibiting her ability to see straight, let alone drive. The last thing she remembered was getting into a car and passing out on the backseat.

            She’d woken up here, with no idea where she was or how the young woman she’d met was involved. But the young woman must have been part of a larger criminal organization, because the next people Amelie encountered were definitely soldiers, and she couldn’t think of any other reason for the young woman to be associated with them. They’d beaten her, indiscriminately displacing joints and shattering bones. Her face was a swollen mess. Her runny nose itched, but she couldn’t wipe it or the sharp ends of the bones rubbed agonizingly against each other. Breathing hurt, crying hurt, _blinking_ hurt. She could taste her own blood. Where was Overwatch? Where was Gerard? Where was somebody, _anybody_ who cared?

            She had cried out for help. That much she remembered; it had cost her a great deal of effort and torn her parched throat to pieces and hadn’t had any effect on her tormenter, but she had done it anyway, desperate for someone to hear her and save her. But soon after she’d cried out in desperation, her captor had left her to her own devices. It _had_ to mean something. She just couldn’t fathom _what._

The bolt on the door slid back with an echoing _thunk_ , and footsteps echoed in her cell. No. _No._ They couldn’t be back already; they’d just left!

            “ _No…No…je t’en supplie_ _, no…”_ She begged, shielding her face, trying to hide herself from whatever was imminent.

            “ I’m not here to harm you. But I do need to see how badly you’re hurt.”

            Amelie let her hands drop slowly. Bending over her was a tall, willowy, severe-looking woman with a slicked-back shock of bright red hair, dressed in pressed black pants and shirt and a lab coat.

            “A-are you a doctor? Help me…” She pleaded.

            The doctor _tsked._ “The state of you…Don’t worry, Miss Lacroix. You’re in skilled hands.” The doctor fished a syringe out of the pocket of her coat. “You must be miserable. Here.”

            Amelie barely felt the injection. Her mind was too busy battling confusion. _The woman knew her name._ How did the woman know her name?

            The question followed her into the abyss, and the abyss gave no answers.

*****************************

            Voices roused her.

            “…unnecessary …hurt her like that….nose _and_ left zygomatic arch. _So_ barbaric.” The voice was female and vaguely familiar.

            “…. didn’t know.” A harder voice growled. Amelie struggled to open her eyes, to figure out who was talking about her and why, but her eyelids wouldn’t budge.

            “Do you have any idea how lucky she was to heal properly or how disfigured she would have been otherwise? I specifically requested that you not do anything that would cause her permanent harm, or there will be evidence.”

            “I told you; I wasn’t there. I didn’t know.” The hard voice snarled more loudly.

            “Regardless, I will not be taking the fall because _you_ failed to discipline your thugs sufficiently. I would suggest you leave now; she’s waking up.”

            A low grunt followed this statement. There was a protracted pause, and Amelie finally managed to crack her eyes open.

            She was lying on a reclined dentist-office-like chair, covered in a blanket. There was an IV drip in her arm, but this place, wherever she’d been taken, definitely was _not_ a hospital. The room was too large, there was too much unrecognizable equipment lying around, and she was the only one here, other than the flame-haired woman she’d seen before.

            “ _Excusez-moi…”_

The doctor turned. “You’re awake. Excellent.”

            She tried to push herself up, but failed.

            “Take it slowly. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

            She registered a hint of an Irish accent in the woman’s voice. “Where am I? And who are you?”

            “Suffice it to say that you’re safe here.” The doctor snapped on a pair of sterile gloves. “And I’m just a doctor with your best interests at heart.” The woman located her arm and began to probe carefully with her long fingers. Amelie flinched and jerked away, her instinct responding before her brain could fully register that the woman’s touch didn’t hurt.

            “Any pain?” The Irish doctor inquired.

            “…No.” She replaced her arm upon the wide armrest, watching as the doctor continued her exploratory prodding.

            “Tell me if it hurts,” the lady told her.

            “How long have I been here?” She asked as the woman moved onto her ribs. And how long had Gerard been looking for her if her broken bones had healed?

            “About a day, by my count.”

            Amelie straightened, staring at the woman in confusion. “How is that possible?

            The doctor put a hand on her chest and pushed her back into the seat. “A new healing complex I invented. Only a select few have access to it, but I thought you were a good utilization of my resources.”

            “So-“ she furrowed her brow in concern, “this stuff is experimental?”

            “It’s quite safe. I’ve tested it enough times to know. You needn’t worry.”

She laid her head back, staring at the ceiling. “I heard another person.”

“You must have been dreaming. Chemicals do funny things to the mind.”

She shook her head, her brain churning, trying to remember what they’d said. “I don’t think so.”

            “What were they talking about?”

            Amelie squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out the room around her, trying to think. “I…I don’t remember. But I know there were two people.” she admitted finally.

            “Hm. Peculiar.” Amelie resisted the urge to pull away as the doctor took her face between two hands and began pressing her thumbs along Amelie’s nose. “That seems to have healed, and in the correct position too.” Her cool fingers grazed Amelie’s cheeks. “And that is healed as well. Good.”

            “I need to speak with my husband, please. He’s probably worried sick.”

            “You will,” the doctor murmured casually, as if only half-listening.

            Amelie looked into the Irish woman’s face. The doctor was focused on her cheek, but Amelie could still see her eyes clearly and noticed something decidedly odd about the woman. Her left eye was clear, brightblue, but her right eye almost matched her hair. Those eyes, coupled with that flaming hair, were _definitely_ and unsettlingly familiar. Amelie tried to piece together the place she’d seen the woman before, but couldn’t quite remember.

            “I need a blood sample, just to make sure you’re healthy.”

  
            Amelie grimaced as the needle stung her arm. She’d always been a little skittish of needles, and she didn’t like the fact that this still-unnamed doctor was so comfortable with jabbing her almost without consent or warning. The doctor pulled the IV from her arm, then stood up, pocketing the vial of Amelie’s blood.

            “Stay here a moment. I’ll come back shortly.”

            Amelie watched her go, too many questions swimming through her head. Who was the woman? Where were they now, and why not a hospital? Had the woman contacted Overwatch or someone else, and if not, _why_ not? She felt some gratitude towards the woman for healing her, but that didn’t mean she needed to trust the Irish woman explicitly.

            She slipped out from under the blanket and took stock of herself. Somebody, maybe the doctor, maybe someone else, had changed her bloodied clothing while she was unconscious, swapping her everyday-wear for hospital scrubs. It was better than waking up naked, and like the doctor’s prodding had revealed, nothing seemed to be broken. She crossed the room on bare feet and looked around, drifting from one steel countertop to the next in search of answers. The computer caught her eye, and she stopped, her curiosity piqued.

            She nudged the mouse, and the meter-wide holographic screen flickered to life. She caught a glimpse of what looked like an illustration from an anatomy textbook, complete with wordy labels, before the screen flashed the words UNAUTHORIZED USER. The text shifted from standard letters to some completely unintelligible gibberish, but the document’s label stayed the same, as did the shifting ladder of DNA that split the document.

            And, unchanged by whatever security protocol she’d triggered, her own face stared back at her.

            She gasped and stumbled backward. What were they doing with her image, what was Project Widowmaker, and what did _she_ have to do with it? She glanced at the perpetually self-rearranging DNA molecule again, which triggered another sharp stab of realization. She _did_ recognize the doctor from an article she’d read some years back. _Futura geneticist Moira O’Deorain accused of unethical research practices_. She covered her mouth to stifle her gasp of horrified understanding. The woman hadn’t rescued her out of goodwill at all; she’d taken Amelie to be her _lab rat_.

            Her stomach clenched at the thought, her face suddenly growing warm. She dry-swallowed a couple times to stop herself from puking. She couldn’t get sick; she didn’t have the time. Right now, she had to get _out_ of here. Any moment, the doctor could step through the door, this whole charade would fall apart and god only knew what would happen.

            She darted to the door, which opened without any key of any kind. Faint relief washed over her; at least O’Deorain hadn’t locked her in the lab. She glanced from side to side, took a left, and bolted around the corner, nearly running straight into the gaunt redhead. She backpedaled, horrified, stumbled over her herself, and fell.

            “Why so startled, Miss Lacroix?” The Irish woman said, stretching out a hand to help her up.

            “Stay away from me. I know who you are.” She picked herself up, ignoring the doctor’s hand, and backed away slowly.

            “I should imagine so, if you’ve been following the news.” O’Deorain mused. “But is ambition really a crime?”

            “If you have to use evil means to get your results, then yes.”

            The geneticist frowned. “Oh, is that what you think of me, Miss Amelie?”

            “I thought you’d rescued me at first, but we never left, did we? You _work_ for Talon,” she accused.

            The doctor smiled. “Clever girl. Yes, I work for Talon. It’s not ideal, but it’s a means to an end. I trade them technology and counsel, and they offer me funding and subjects for my projects.”

            “And me? Why am I here?” Amelie almost didn’t want an answer.

            “You’re the perfect candidate for a little trial that encompasses both my and my employers’ interests.”

            Vertigo swept over the ballet dancer, and she leaned against the wall. “You can’t do this. I-I won’t let you.”

            The Irish woman’s smile faded. “I’m afraid you don’t have much of a choice. You’ve experienced first-hand how brutal Talon can be, and you know now how careful I am. You can do this my way or their way, but either way, it _will_ be done.”

            Amelie backed up, shaking her head and balling her fists. “No…You _can’t_. Stay away from me.”

            O’Deorain sighed. “I did hope you’d be reasonable.” She reached up to touch the earpiece she wore.

            The ballet dancer made a split-second decision, gathered her body beneath her and lunged for the red-haired woman. She grabbed the doctor’s arm, forcing the woman’s hand away from the communication device. A clawed hand seized the back of her neck, slamming her into the wall, and the Talon woman’s other hand fastened tightly around one wrist, torqueing her arm up and behind her back. Amelie struggled, trying to push herself off the cold steel, but the geneticist was too close to maneuver.

 “Just because I am of a more intellectual persuasion and have great personal interest in your well-being doesn’t mean I won’t defend myself.” Amelie felt the woman’s cheek brush her own. “Not everyone here is as lenient or careful as I am. Keep that in mind and you won’t get hurt.” The hand briefly left the back of her neck. “Mr. Reyes; O’Deorain. I require some assistance near my lab.”

Amelie twisted in the woman’s loosened grasp, breaking free from the doctor’s hold. She threw an elbow backward, as Gerard had taught her, and heard a satisfying grunt as it caught the estranged geneticist in the stomach. Not bothering to see how long the deranged doctor would stay down, Amelie bolted in the opposite direction, her bare feet slapping the floor, her breathing harsh and too quick in her ears. She had to find an exit or a weapon or _something_ to help her. She charged for the turn ahead, desperate to keep away from O’Deorain.

Black mist poured around the corner at a frightening rate, and she skidded to a stop, fear pounding through her. Whatever the mist was, it likely was dangerous, and it was coming her way much too fast. She turned on her heel and fled, but had only taken a few steps when strong hands seized her. She yelped in shock and tried to twist, but this new person was much stronger than the doctor. Where had they come from? She tried to get a look at the person, but the individual was covered from head to toe in black, face concealed by a mask that looked like a bleached deer’s skull.

“O’Deorain; Reaper. I’ve got her,” her captor rasped in unmistakably masculine tones.

“Let me go! You don’t understand what she wants to do to me!” She begged him, struggling furiously in his arms.

The white mask tilted, but the wearer didn’t respond. O’Deorain appeared, her thin, severe features impassive.

“I should have expected this from Gerard’s wife.” She shook her head. “Apparently you need some time to cool off. We’ll talk after you’ve had a chance to fully take in the gravity of your situation.”

“ _Chienne,”_ the ballet dancer spat.

O’Deorain broke eye contact. “Mr. Reyes, if you would take our guest somewhere quiet to think over this. I’m sure she needs some time to process.”

Reyes tugged her backward, his bone-crushing grip unrelenting, and she had no choice but to stumble after the man, her demands for release falling on deaf ears.

********************

            “Mr. Reyes, I’m working. Unless it’s urgent, it can wait.”

            Gabriel’s shadowy figure skulked at the edge of Moira’s vision, looking more like an out-of-focus manifestation of the Grim Reaper than a man. 

            “It _can’t_ wait, O’Deorain. That girl, however small a threat she represents, endangered the security of this base.” He closed in on her.  “Keep your pets on a tighter leash, or I _will_ fix the problem for good.”

            She didn’t turn. Reyes always postured like this; as subtle as a sledgehammer to the skull. “Must you be so melodramatic? The whole point of letting her out was to prove that no matter how far or fast she runs, no matter how long her leash is, Talon will always be holding the other end.”

            “Until we lose track of one of your projects, and they run to Overwatch and spill their whole story, including whatever Talon data they can get their hands on.”

            Moira sighed. “Pay attention a moment.” She got up and moved over to her computer, pulling up a map of the facility.

            “What?” The man snapped.

            “Would it kill you to have just a tiny amount of patience for once, Reyes?” She hit a key, and a luminous dot appeared on the map. “There’s Miss Lacroix now.” She tapped in another code, and a map of the country replaced the facility map, but the dot remained. “Our satellite can watch her wherever she goes. So don’t worry about losing her; I do try to protect the investments, and if we lose her before I can wipe her memories, we can always track her down. Because let’s be honest, Mr. Reyes; where exactly is she going to run?”

            Reyes grunted in response. Moira smiled dryly.

            “I thought as much. Now if you would see yourself out. I have a lot of work to do.”

*************


	2. Loxosceles Reclusa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira analyzes her new specimen and plans alterations. Gerard realizes his wife and lover is missing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brown recluse spiders, or Loxosceles Reclusa, are considered to be one of the most venomous species of spider in the world. They prefer to inhabit places undisturbed by people, such as wood piles and garden sheds. Their bite causes localized tissue necrosis in approximately thirty-seven percent of patients and can lead to severe scarring. This condition, specific to the bite of recluse spiders, is called loxoscelism.  
> The best way to identify this spider is to look at its eyes.

************************

*Though the non-con in this chapter is nonsexual, please be advised there IS non-con (as defined by Webster's dictionary).*

Thank you.

**********************

“When I was a girl, I had a fear of spiders. I was told that they felt no emotion, that their hearts never beat…”

**************************

 

 _This is how a lab rabbit feels_.

            The thought raced around and around Amelie’s head, her heart hammering a tattoo against her sternum. She tried the restraints holding her down for the hundredth time, but as before, they wouldn’t budge.

For two days she’d had almost no contact with human beings and just as much sleep. Talon medical staff, dressed in white and wearing obscuring surgical masks, had drifted in and out, bringing food or taking blood from her. She had tried to resist their attempts at gathering gene samples for the geneticist lurking nearby, but they always outnumbered her three to one, and struggling had only caused these encounters to be that much more miserable. Her arms were bruised and sore from where they’d repeatedly stuck her.

Today they hadn’t taken samples, but her relief at the fact had evaporated when two burly guards had appeared, muscled her over here, and strapped her into the reclining chair she’d initially woken up in. She’d tested the straps a million different ways, tugging and twisting until she thought her wrists might break, but to no avail. Despite the scrubs she wore, she felt as naked and vulnerable as a newborn baby.

“Good day, Miss Lacroix.”

She recognized the Irish lilt immediately this time, and her stomach twisted. _Oh no. Not her._

O’Deorain hummed thoughtfully, her tall form hovering at the boundaries of Amelie’s vision, her attention momentarily focused elsewhere. “Have you had time to think over what we’ve discussed?”

“I don’t care what you say. I won’t cooperate with you,” she snarled at the doctor.

The Irish woman tsked and turned to her, leaning on the equipment. “You’re going to make things harder on yourself, Miss Lacroix. I told you; you’re not leaving this base until I’m finished with part one of my project. There are too many people here who want to see the successful conclusion of my current work. Which you still have little to no idea what it is, do you?”

“I don’t care. You work for Talon.”

“Fear and prejudice are such misguided reasons to hate something.”

“You’re a geneticist. Why would you be involved in this if you didn’t want to mess with…me?” She couldn’t bring herself to say “my genetics”. The words felt too personal.

“An apt observation. My talents extend beyond simple genetic engineering now, though that is still my main focus. And yes, when I’m finished, you will have some degree of genetic variance. But that is merely the second step of my project.”

Amelie felt her throat close up, her pulse skyrocketing. A sharp chirp from one of the machines indicated her spiking vitals. O’Deorain smiled.

“ You’ll still be you, Miss Lacroix. Just improved. Streamlined. Adjusted to fit Talon’s needs.” She steepled her fingers, pressing her hands pensively to her thin lips and staring down at Amelie, who squirmed under her gaze.

“What are you going to do to me?” The dancer choked.

“I’m not sure yet, as your augmentations are likely to be very different from Mr. Reyes. But you’re here right now so I can get a good idea of what I want to do. It will take some time to implement, of course, and I don’t dare until the conditioning takes, but that’s all the more reason to start now.” She straightened and uncrossed her legs. “So let’s have a look at you.” O’Deorain’s gaze swept her body with the clinical accuracy of a surgical laser. She murmured something to herself, tapping her nails together. Amelie noticed her right hand looked like it had died, the skin gray and ingrained with cybernetics, the nails freakishly long. The dancer shivered, unable to take her eyes off the damaged limb.

“What happened to your hand?”

The geneticist ignored her, circling, still muttering under her breath. Amelie struggled, cold sweat prickling her forehead as she realized that the Irish woman was sizing her up.

“Relax, Miss Lacroix. If you fight, you’ll only waste your energy.”

“Please don’t do this,” she begged the doctor, her eyes stinging.

“I’m just going to examine you today. Don’t tell me that scares you.”

“Yes,” she mumbled, doing her best to avoid eye contact with O’Deorain. A fat tear slipped down her cheek.

The geneticist   _tsked,_ wiping away the tear, her fingers cold against Amelie’s cheeks. “ _Pauvre l’apin_ ,” she purred. “I’m doing this for your own good, dear. Once my work is complete, not one trace of imperfection will be left in your body.”

Amelie choked back a sob. Why, why, _why_ did she think the Irish woman would have any pity on her? The deranged geneticist worked for _Talon,_ a massive, entrenched crime organization full of people who had no soul. Perhaps it was O’Deorain’s distant behavior, as opposed to the overt cruelty she’d been expecting, that maybe her impersonality would distance her from causing actual physical harm. But no, it just meant that the woman didn’t feel anything _at all_ for the misery of others.

Talon was going to cut her down to nothing and she couldn’t do anything about it, the dancer realized. But Gerard had taught her better. She had to fight these people with whatever strength she had.

The doctor took the base of her chin in a two-handed grip and tilted her head back, then side to side, gazing deep into Amelie’s eyes. The dancer swallowed and shivered. The Irish woman might be looking at her, but her stare was emotionless as steel, as though she saw nothing and no one staring back at her.

“You have beautiful eyes, Miss Lacroix. Does your husband tell you that?” O’Deorain said. “I’ll have to see if I can preserve the original color.” She tightened her grip on the dancer’s chin with one hand, her long nails pinching the dancer’s cheek, and pulled something from her pocket with the other. Amelie jerked in the geneticist’s hold, trying to break the vile woman’s grasp, her heart pounding.

“Are you going to tell me you’re afraid of a pen-light, my dear?” The doctor purred, activating the pocket-sized flashlight and flicking the beam into the French woman’s eyes. The dancer squeezed her eyes shut in defiance, but the Irish woman didn’t seem bothered by this. It seemed to Amelie that the woman had gotten whatever data she was after as she turned with a swish of her lab coat and made another note. “Excellent reaction times, too.”

“I-I have bad eyesight,” Amelie lied, her stomach doing a pirouette.

“Is that so?” The geneticist mused. “No contacts, no glasses, no reported physical problems in your records. And yes, I do have access to your medical records, which I also happen to know was updated not four months ago, so I know you’re lying.”

“That’s not my record, then. You have the wrong information,” Amelie insisted as the woman took a note.

The Irish woman let out a bark of laughter, and Amelie felt what little resolve had been building inside her shatter. “Try all you want to convince me of that, but I happen to know that my information is extremely reliable. Besides, if your claims were true, I could always fix the problem.” She gave Amelie a thin, tight smile. “I’ll be just a moment.” She stepped away, sat at her desk, and began to type.

Left with nothing but the ever-more desperate thought of escape, Amelie strained against her bindings again, grunting and twisting her wrists in a desperate attempt to find some room to maneuver. The restraints chafed, slowly rubbing her wrists to a brighter and brighter shade of red. O’Deorain suddenly spoke, not turning around.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable, Miss Lacroix, but if you don’t keep quiet and let me focus, you only risk endangering yourself to mistakes. You wouldn’t want to wind up like this or worse, would you?” The doctor raised her mutated right hand.

A hard lump wedged itself suddenly in Amelie’s throat, and she went momentarily still. “What happened to your hand?” She asked again.

“An experiment gone awry. I’d explain it, but I’m working.”

“You’re going to do that to me?” The French woman choked.

“No, of course not. This wasn’t a desired result. My genetic modifications to you will be much more refined.”

 “Please…” Amelie whimpered. “Please…You don’t have to-“

O’Deorain sighed in irritation and turned to face her. “It wasn’t my prerogative to choose you, Miss Lacroix. You simply fell into the right categories. You have only your husband to blame for the fact you’re here.”

Anger flashed through her, briefly overwhelming her fear. “Don’t you _dare_ blame Gerard for this!”

“ _Think_ before you speak, Miss Lacroix. Would you be here if your husband wasn’t trying to hunt down Talon?” The geneticist bit out.

She gaped at the Irish woman, whose angry features melted into a sinister smile.

“Oh, you didn’t know. Poor dear. I assumed…with your hatred of Talon…but we have been in the news a lot.” She tapped her nails against her lips, still smiling. “Talon wanted revenge, and they have to recoup the losses your husband has caused us. So, here you are, a victim of circumstance.” Her smile faded slightly. “I imagine revenge was also the reason for the harm you suffered upon your initial awakening, hence my warning to you not to anger the guards. They’re not nearly as collected as I am, and it’s frustrating having to work with damaged goods.”

The swish of a door broke her pause, and she stood up, her lab coat snapping out behind her as she passed just out of sight range.  Amelie strained her head, trying to figure out who had come in, but all she could see was two blurs of white against the silver-grey walls. O’Deorain returned, followed by a blank-faced middle-aged man carrying a case and wearing a lab coat.

“You’re not going to like our next test and you don’t need to be awake for it, so I think it’s time to say goodbye for now. I know you haven’t been sleeping well, and a nap will do you some good.”

The man pulled a syringe and a vial of some chemical from his pocket, broke the cap off the syringe, and began to fill it.

“ _No! Ne pas!_ ” Amelie shouted, pulling at the restraints, unable to stop the tears that she had been able to, for the most part, hold off until now.

The geneticist put a surprisingly gentle hand on her forehead and ran her fingernails through Amelie’s hair in the parody of a soothing touch. “You’re in the hands of the very best scientists in the world, Miss Lacroix. There’s no reason to be afraid. We won’t let any harm come to you.”

The` dancer stared at the geneticist in utter confusion, flinching as the man swabbed her arm with alcohol.

“You’re far too valuable to us.”

The needle bit her arm, and ice-water flooded her veins. She whimpered and shook her head, trying to deny impending unconsciousness, but whatever they’d injected with was much too strong. Darkness took her, and the last thing she saw was O’Deorain’s haunting smile.

*********************************

Amelie made a final, flawless pirouette, then turned and blew a kiss at the camera.

 _“Je t’aime, mon cherie.”_ She trilled, winking.

“Je t’aime, mon papillon,” Gerard murmured back, smiling. “À bientôt.”

His finger hovered over the slider at the bottom of the video, and he debated whether to rewind it or not. He missed her so.

The voice of his security detail and driver broke him from his thoughts. “We’re here, sir.”

Gerard looked up from the video as the car pulled into the driveway of his nondescript house. He waited as the bodyguard checked his surroundings, impatiently drumming his fingers against his leg in a bid to stave off the restlessness of wanting to see his wife. His driver opened the door for him, and he grabbed the luggage already piled on the drive and unlocked the door as his ride pulled out.

“Amelie?” He called, pushing the door open. “I’m home.”

Silence met his words. He frowned. Surely his wife would want to see him after his travels.

“Amelie? Where are you?”

Was she playing a prank on him or just using the facilities? He checked the downstairs toilet, then the upstairs, only to find she was not there.

“This isn’t funny,” he called, tension drawing his voice tight and sharp.

He tried to calm the rising tide of worry. _Maybe she’s just out and about._ He hustled to the garage and opened the door. The car was gone.

“She’s just in town,” he murmured to himself, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He dialed Amelie’s number and waited. “Come on, it’s me. Pick up, pick up, pick up...”

“ _Hello, this Amelie Lacroix_. _I can’t reach the phone right now. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back as soon as I can!”_ The phone’s pre-recorded message chirped in his ear. He hung up, squeezing his phone case. Instinct screamed at him to call his security and alert Overwatch, but he forced himself to put his phone down. She was just out, and her phone had run out of batteries or something. That was all.  Amelie always said he worried far too much and that he shouldn’t stress out every time she went out with friends.

Minutes dragged into hours, and afternoon slowly passed into evening. It seemed to Gerard that someone had wired the clocks to keep time at half-speed. He checked the fridge, noting the look and smell of the meat and milk, which still appeared consumable. She wouldn’t let food rot in the fridge, so there was at least that thought. Trying to take his mind off his might-be-missing wife, he unpacked his clothing and started a load of wash, but his mind kept flicking to the cellphone tucked in his back pocket. He closed the washer lid and started it, his fingers tap-tap-tapping on the metal before he pulled his phone out again and made a second attempt to contact his wife. The phone rang through, and again he got her voicemail.  He hung up and wandered into the kitchen, contemplating the wine. He shouldn’t open a bottle, he supposed. In his current state he’d end up drinking most of it and ignoring dinner completely.

Gerard shrugged off the thought and popped the cork out of an olive-colored bottle, pouring the beet-red contents into a water glass. He took a sip; this wine in particular hadn’t been very expensive and had a vinegary tang to it that furthered the observation. He barely noticed, prodding his phone awake again and again to call and check for text messages. He got no response, nor did Amelie pick up. The giddy warmth of drunken ecstasy washed over him, but it wasn’t enough to make him forget the lingering anxiety of his vanished spouse, worry that only strengthened with each minute that passed.

He lifted the bottle to refill his glass and was surprised to note how light it was. Had he really drunk that much? The two fingers’ worth of cheap alcohol in the divoted bottom told him that, yes, he had drunk that much. And his wife still wasn’t home, even though the falling dark of night was slowly consuming the final daylight hours. Alarm slashed through him, cutting his haze like a surgeon’s scalpel parting skin.

No more deliberation. He had to face the fact his wife was MIA, and no matter what state he was in, Overwatch had to know. They would find his wife. They _had_ to find his wife.

            The line picked up on the third ring, and Lena “Tracer”’s British accent filtered through the speakers, her voice as cheery as ever.

            _“Hello, Gerard! You caught me at a good time; I was just playing some cards with Jesse. How was your trip?”_

            Gerard’s mouth worked silently for a long minute, trying to spit out what he needed to say.

            _“You still there, luv?”_ Tracer asked, sounding confused.

“I-My-I need help,” he choked past the lump in his throat. “Amelie’s been kidnapped.”

            The other end of the phone made no noise for a long moment. His revelation had rendered Lena Oxton speechless.

**************************

Well...That was dark. Also, I now know way more about poisonous spiders than I want to. 

 

But if you liked it, there's plenty more where that came from. 

 

As always, please mind the tags, and thanks so much for reading. 


	3. Will-O-Wisp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amiele defies her captors, leading to a confrontation. Moira assesses the mental strengths and weaknesses of her subject.

“ _H_ _ola_ Doc.” Sombra sauntered into the lab, her gaze fixed on the scientist. “How’s your work?”

“Fine, thank you, Sombra. Do you need my attention, or have you finally come to accept my offer?” Moira said coolly.

The hacker smirked. “Nah. Just wondering what you think of your subject.”

“She’s certainly more than I expected, if that’s what you’re asking.” The chime of glass on glass echoed as the geneticist tapped her pipette against the side of her beaker, but the Irish woman didn’t elaborate. Sombra watched her work in silence for several minutes.

“Are you waiting on something?” The scientist finally asked, her tone edged with annoyance.

“Oh, you know. I work so hard for Talon. It would be nice to see a little recognition, yeah?”

“Your paycheck’s not enough for you?” Moira asked, her tone mocking.

“It’s not that. Just that this particular job wasn’t easy. Do you know how hard Overwatch encryption bands are to crack? Even the private ones took me weeks, and all I was doing was listening in on conversations.” Sombra mused, twirling a lock of her lavender- tipped hair around a finger. “She’s such a dull conversationalist.”

“Perhaps she was simply drunk, but I can’t imagine her knowing much about her husband’s business, presuming that’s what you’re after. If you want more information about Blackwatch, go hack your way into the databases. Or talk to Reyes. I’m busy,” the doctor said stiffly, hunching over her table and carefully transferring the liquid drip by drip into a tray with many rows of divots. “Besides, if you want me to congratulate you on the potential fiasco you nearly made of a simple mission, you’re going to be disappointed.”

            “Pfft. You only asked me ‘cause no one  _else_ could do it,” Sombra retorted, twirling a lock of her lavender- tipped hair around a finger. “I just handled it the way I thought best.”

            “Maybe so, but she was already intoxicated, and from what I understand, you had the bartender do most of the heavy lifting.”

Sombra snorted. “Because it would have seemed suspicious otherwise, obviously.”

            “That was still dangerous. If he hadn’t agreed, then the mission could have been a colossal failure.”

            “I had things under control. Everyone has dirt they don’t want to get out to the public, and the bartender was no exception.” She chuckled. “He _really_ didn’t want his tax evasion getting out to the law.” She shook her head, grinning. “Gotta love federal law enforcement; so incompetent they need me to track law-breakers down for them.”

            “And I’m sure your judgment on what to and what not to release to them is always impeccable,” Moira responded casually.

            Sombra rolled her eyes at this jab. Moira’s tablet buzzed against the metal table, and Sombra took a peek at it; Moira’s SIC, asking for advice. It probably wasn’t wise to delay the geneticist any further, considering the multiplying distractions from her work and the doctor’s antsy employers. “Fine, be that way. By the way, your second-in-command wants to meet. Something about your project, I think.” She initiated her translocator.

            “What have I told you about my personal-“ the geneticist snapped, turning around, but all that remained of Sombra was a blue flash of translocation and a faint outline of the hacker smugly waving goodbye.

*****************************************

            “Miss Lacroix, you’re only making things more difficult for yourself.”

            Amelie did not look up. She didn’t need to; that now-hated Irish lilt told her exactly who was at the door watching her, even though several days had passed since she’d last seen the woman.

            “You need to eat.”

            “I’m not hungry,” she spat into her lap, pressing her forehead harder against her knees, trying to ignore the pained stabbings from her starving belly. “Besides, you probably drugged it, didn’t you?”

            “Why would we do that?”

            “So I don’t suspect anything, to make me more _manageable_.” The word left a disgusting taste on her tongue. “I know how you people work.”

            The geneticist _tsked._ “It’s not good for you to be so suspicious of your meals that you stop eating, and we prefer you healthy over manageable. If there is a factor preventing you from getting necessary nutrition, I need to know.”

            “ _You_ are stopping me from eating. You disgust me,” Amelie spat, finally looking up at the scientist. “All of you. You’re monsters, and you can’t coax or threaten me into obeying you.”

            “Well, we could simply do away with any sort of common courtesy, sedate you, and force a feeding tube down your throat. Would you prefer that?”

            Amelie’s breath caught. The mere thought of it was utterly barbaric. _They wouldn’t_ …

But those mismatched eyes portrayed only calm, staring unblinkingly back at her. _Mon Dieu…_ The woman _wasn’t_ joking.

“You’re sick.”

The geneticist smiled humorlessly. The expression on the woman’s thin, sharp face lent a predatory edge to her features, as though Amelie was simply a small, fuzzy animal that O’Deorain had just cornered. “No, my dear. We’re just trying to make sure you’re healthy. Can’t have you making yourself sick with silly acts of defiance, can we? We have a lot of work to do, and so little time to do it in, after all.”

Amelie gathered as much moisture in her mouth as she could and spat at the woman. O’Deorain cocked her head in response.

“That’s not very polite, Miss Lacroix.”

“You don’t deserve it from me.” Amelie snarled.

“Perhaps you fail to understand how much I’ve already done for you. You get three square meals, a bed with pillows and blankets, adequate time for sleep, and access to hygiene facilities on my orders. If someone else was heading this project, I have no doubt you’d be in a much less pleasant situation. However, if you prefer not to take advantage of these amenities, then we can always fall back on a plan that is less messy and requires less work on our part.” She glanced to the splattered remains of Amelie’s breakfast.

 “You’re only doing all that because you want me healthy.” Amelie retorted.

“Precisely.” The doctor leaned against the cot’s frame, studying  the dancer. “You see, dear, I do care about your health, whatever you might have led yourself to believe.”

 _Merde cette chienne frustrante_. “But _why?_ For “conditioning”? What is that?”

“That’s a need-to-know piece of information, Miss Lacroix. And quite frankly, you don’t need to know.”

“You’re going to start it soon, aren’t you? _That’s_ why you want me healthy.”

O’Deorain let out a bark of laughter, and the air temperature seemed to drop. “Smart girl. Don’t worry; it won’t hurt you. But unless you start behaving yourself, we will take steps to compensate for your unruly behavior. We’re only waiting on the last few test results which will come in a couple of days, so you’d better make your decision quickly.”

Amelie swallowed and shuddered, running her hands across her bare forearms. _A few days_. That was all the time she could assume she had before Talon began messing with her in earnest. And if she wanted to think of escape, she needed her strength.

“You’ve got to be starving by now. You haven’t eaten for almost two days,” the doctor noted, her tone almost kind. “Would you like me to send for a meal?”

Amelie looked at the floor. “Yes.”

The geneticist’s shadow fell over her, and long, cool fingers cupped the dancer’s chin, lifting her face as though the scientist was a parent chastising a young child. “And you’ll eat it instead of throwing it?”

Amelie pulled from the doctor’s grip. “ _Yes_.”

“Any preferences?”

She looked up at O’Deorain, incredulous.

A thin, taut smile stretched the doctor’s pale face. “I’ll see that you’re accommodated as long as you cooperate and don’t make ridiculous demands. Go on, then. If you’re hungry, speak up.”

“Some meat, some vegetables.” She shrugged and avoided the woman’s gaze, not wanting to ask for much. Every interaction with the Irish woman stole her appetite, she didn’t know where the money to feed her came from, and she didn’t really want to consider it.

“I’ll see what I can do. I do want you to eat, after all.” The doctor patted her cheek lightly, just twice, straightened, and moved towards the exit. She paused at the door and glanced back at Amelie. “See how easy things are when you behave yourself?” The Irish woman’s voice dripped with patronizing tones.

Rage flashed through Amelie, and she lunged to her feet, scooping up a clod of cold oatmeal in one hand and tossing the lump of food like a baseball. It hit O’Deorain’s back dead-center, leaving a grayish-tan smear on her pristine lab coat. The doctor turned, one razor-thin eyebrow cocked.

“Your aim’s getting better. Good. That will be a useful skill.”

Amelie screamed at the woman, her cry of fury bouncing off the walls. She wanted to launch herself at the scientist, to hurt the maddening woman somehow, but she knew there were a pair of guards waiting just outside the door to subdue her should she cause problems. She’d seen them enough times.

She shoved her anger down and turned away as the door shut, then threw herself onto the cot, anger boiling inside her gut. Gerard’s face came floating into her mind, along with the advice he’d given her. _If you’re overwhelmed, don’t strike until you have an opening._ They may have caught her off guard once, but not a second time.

_I’ll come home, mon Cherie. I promise._

*************************

Moira entered the observation room. Dr. Wieber, her de-facto replacement who took over when she was gone, was waiting.

“Thank you. I talked to her repeatedly, and she wouldn’t listen to me.”

 “She’s not in a reasonable state of mind right now,” Moira responded casually, removing her soiled jacket. “I find subjects in this state often require a little goading to get them to cooperate. Besides, it helps us understand how they react to certain stressors, which, I take it, is valuable data both in the distant future and the more immediate future. We have to know what to avoid and what makes them open to manipulation.”

On-camera, a guard brought the French dancer a tray of food. The woman accepted it silently and began to pick it over, scowling.

“Steak, hm? And you were telling me not to coddle her,” Wieber said, his tone a little smug.

“We need her to eat right now, and providing her with foods she favors encourages her to do so,” Moira responded stiffly.

“When should we begin preliminary injections?”

“Not yet. We need to gather information on her memory patterns. If we can gauge what she’s afraid of, it will increase the speed in breaking down her resistance. We need her pliable to enact the imprinting. I trust you’ll be able to handle carrying out part one of this project for the most part? Part two is equally important, and I’m the only one with enough skill to complete it.”

Wieber nodded sagely, quietly accepting her claim. The corner of Moira’s mouth twitched in a slight smile. She liked that about Wieber; he knew better than to dispute her claims about her skills because he knew damn well that this wasn’t just a boast on her part. She was his boss, and he was well aware of that.

“Good. I’ll want to speak with her briefly before you begin, but otherwise consider me occupied.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“I leave her in your capable hands. Do whatever you think needs to be done, but do not harm her.” Moira glanced at the monitor. The subject was using her plastic spork to fling morsels of food at one of the cameras, and judging by the smearing on the lens, she wasn’t a half-bad shot. Moira’s smile widened.

_We can make you better yet, my dear. Just wait and see._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In literature, will-o'-the-wisp sometimes have a metaphorical meaning describing something one finds sinister and confounding."  
> -Wikipedia
> 
> (Yes, I know Wikipedia isn't the best source, but it'll do for looking up a good title to a fan fiction.)
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter. It needed some edits, so that's why it took so long. Hopefully more coming soon.
> 
> Until then, hope you liked it.
> 
> *Addendum* I realized I left out an entire chunk of this chapter by accident! Ooops....
> 
> (Sorry abut the weird indentation. In Word it's fine, but for some reason it never transfers cleanly...)


	4. Give and Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talon gradually begins to implement their conditioning, and Gerard brings his plea of rescuing his wife before the rest of Overwatch.

Amelie hugged her knees to her chest, trying her hardest not to touch her head. Even the faintest wisp of air from the air conditioning was enough to remind her that they’d cut her hair all the way back to the scalp the last time they’d knocked her out, leaving her head as naked as a plucked chicken. They were planning something big, and they were going to act soon.

_I’m not going to let them do this to me._

She shuddered to think what they would do, but she knew they wouldn’t take her without a fight. Starving herself hadn’t prevented them from making plans, and she knew by now that they weren’t drugging her food. She had started eating again and had been practicing the martial arts that Gerard had showed her, running through various moves over and over, each time challenging herself to move faster. She’d done her best to obscure the cameras watching her, but she didn’t know if she had gotten them all. Her captors were probably standing in a monitoring room somewhere, laughing their asses off at her attempts.

She scowled into her legs. She’d had plenty of practice at channeling her anger productively over the last week or so, and she’d gotten damn good at imagining driving her fists or elbows or feet into the Irish geneticist’s face or stomach with increasing force. If she could only do it for real, make the twisted woman really _hurt_ for what she implied she was going to do to Amelie. It was only fair, considering the taunting, manipulation, and abuse she’d already experienced. Not to mention that borderline-psychologically-torturous exam she’d been forced to sit through…

“Sulking again, Miss Lacroix?”

_Speak of the devil…_ “I’m married, you know,” She spat at the scientist.

“Oh, I’m well aware. I just don’t particularly care,” the geneticist mused.

“Go away.”

“You don’t want my gift?”

“Take your ‘gift’ and shove it.”

O’Deorain clucked her tongue. “My, my. You are not in a good mood today. Perhaps I’ll try again tomorrow.”

“What did you expect? I’m not an animal.”

The doctor smiled, and if Amelie had thought her previous grins were disturbing, this was by far the most frightening expression she’d ever seen on the woman’s face; a deep, hungry, savage expression that told Amelie the woman thought she was wrong. “We’re _all_ animals, Miss Lacroix. Some of us just happen to be smarter than the others.” She cocked her head, her eyes sparkling. “Quite a mystery, isn’t it? That such radical differences could be housed in such a very small portion of our genetics?”

“I never had much interest in science.”

“A pity. I guess that’s why you became a dancer. Such a dead-end job, isn’t it? Hard on the body, little gratification in later years. When you look back on your life, what will you be able to say you gave back to the world?”

“People came from all over France to watch me dance. All you did was kidnap and hurt people.”

Moira threw back her head and laughed, a sound devoid of any lighthearted amusement. The noise made Amelie shiver. “Such a narrow-minded view of the world, Miss Lacroix! And, alas, one of the shortcomings of not keeping up to date in scientific discoveries. You are not my only ongoing project, just a pet project belonging to Talon as a whole. Besides, I wouldn’t hurt anyone without a specific reason. Why else would I keep the rest of Talon away from you?”

“Because you want me healthy,” Amelie spat.

“That’s certainly part of it, but I find causing pain is unpleasant and often unnecessary. It’s counterproductive to our goals with you in particular, which is all the more reason to avoid causing it.” She smiled and tapped her nails against the side of her head. “Civilians have fragile minds, and Talon needs something left of you to build from.”

“I’m _so_ relieved,” the dancer bit out.

“You should be. That’s why you’re here instead of a lightless cell with no cot or toilet.”

“You’re still only giving me basic decencies. Besides, it’s freezing in here.”

“You should have asked for a blanket, then. I’ll have one brought to you. In the meantime…” The doctor pulled a thick square of black cloth from her pocket and held it out to Amelie. The dancer eyed the thing suspiciously.

“It’s a _hat_ , Miss Lacroix. It’s not going to bite you. Put it on. You’ll feel better.”

Amelie pulled the item from the woman’s grasp and shook it out. A knit ski cap materialized in her hands, embroidered with a logo she’d seen before; a skull set inside a segmented red-and-white circle. She ran one thumb across the symbol, thinking back to the same pin she’d seen on her husband’s dresser before, and homesickness swept over her in nauseating waves. Tears pricked her eyes, and she pressed the hat to her forehead, hiding her face from her captor.

“Do you miss home, Miss Lacroix?”

Amelie didn’t respond, scowling into the knitting, her thoughts consisting mainly of  the feeling of the Talon scientist’s nose shattering under her knuckles.

“You’ll get to go home soon, my dear. Don’t cry.”

“You’re lying.”

A cold hand touched her shoulder suddenly, making her jump. “It’s not like me to deal in lies, Miss Lacroix. Talon or not, I’ve dedicated myself to seeking the truth of human nature and combating misconception wherever it might reside. Rest assured we will send you home.”

“Why are you saying this?” Ameile looked up at the woman, her vision half-obscured with tears. “Why are you pretending to be nice? You’re not fooling me.”

“I’m not trying to fool you. You need to know that your current position is not permanent. That’s all, my dear.” The geneticist patted her shoulder and straightened. “The sooner we finish, the sooner you can go home. We’re preparing to enact Phase One, so hopefully your return home sooner, not later.”

Amelie swallowed, the smoldering embers of fear inside her re-igniting at these words. “What are you going to do to me?”

“I wouldn’t concern yourself with that. You’ll be sedated enough you won’t be able to remember much, and hopefully when we’re finished, you won’t recall any of your stay here.”

“But why? Why kidnap me at all if you’re just going to erase everything?”

Moira smiled. “Need-to-know intelligence, my dear. You’re just a project to satisfy Talon’s curiosity. But, seeing as these memories have been awful, I trust you’ll cooperate with my team when they begin?”

“ _Va te faire enculer,_ ” Amelie spat.

The scientist _tsked._ “Does your husband know you kiss him with that mouth?”

“ _Ferme ta gueule.”_

“Touched a nerve, have I?” O’Deorain’s eyes glittered with amusement. “Well, we’ll be able to use that spunk of yours before too long. But I have to go now. You won’t see me for a while, but don’t forget I’m keeping my eye on you. I wouldn’t want something to happen to you, after all.” She smiled nastily. “At least, not until I’m ready for you.”

Amelie threw the hat at the geneticist’s retreating back. “Good riddance!” the dancer shouted after the Talon agent. The woman gave her a slight smirk, then disappeared. Amelie glared at the hat, shivered, then snatched it off the floor. She turned it in her hands, wondering whose it had been previously, then spotted a small tag on the inside that read _O’Deorain_ in gray block letters. She stared at the tag incredulously. It couldn’t be. Gerard had knowingly _hired_ this woman? Perhaps the tag had been added as an attempt to confuse her and turn her against Gerard, she reasoned. This was Talon after all.

She slid the hat over her head, grimacing at the necessity of wearing something that might have belonged to the insane geneticist, but after a minute or two felt a little warmer. More importantly, though, it hid her bald head. Muttering in French, she crossed her arms and tucked her knees to her chest, trying to retain some semblance of warmth and swearing at the woman for daring to be right.

            **********************************************

           

            “Are you sure?”

“ _Yes!_ Why _wouldn’t_ I be sure?” Gerard shouted at the unshakable Ana Amari. “I _know_ my wife, and she knows I worry about her. She would not leave me guessing this long! And while we’re sitting here talking, we’re losing our chance at finding her!”

“I know you’re concerned about this, Gerard, I really do,” Gabrielle Adawe said, her voice calm but firm, “but we need to talk about this objectively. We have to look at the facts. How do you know it was Talon?”

“Who else would it be?” Gerard snapped. “And I know what you’re thinking; maybe it’s just a technical difficulty. Maybe she couldn’t get home or her phone ran out of charge. But more than two things at once? She’s not stupid; she would have caught a ride with someone else or contacted me somehow if there was a problem.”

“Did they make any demands?” Petras asked.

“No.” His mind grappled with the thought for a second, then clung to it. “Petras has a point; wouldn’t they have made demands by now if they wanted to get at me, and wouldn’t that rule out smaller terrorist organizations?”

Morrison’s scowl didn’t budge, but he was nodding.

“That makes sense,” Gabrielle said, frowning, “but it’s all the more upsetting for it. _Why_ would Talon kidnap your wife and leave no instructions or demands?”

“More importantly, what did she know of Overwatch and Blackwatch?” Morrison spoke up, his voice gravelly with concern.

“I told her very little of Overwatch and less of Blackwatch. If I told her about a fraction of a fraction of the kind of scum we deal with, she’d be traumatized, if not labeled a legitimate target!”

“I’m afraid by simply marrying her you made her a legitimate target,” Petras stated, his voice pained.

            Gerard ground his teeth. “You _know_ what I mean. They haven’t tried this before, and if I was giving my wife even minimal information, then they would have attempted this a lot sooner.”’

            “Perhaps they have new members we aren’t aware of yet,” Angela suggested, her face grim.

            “A concerning possibility,” Gabrielle murmured into her intertwined fingers.

            Gerard slammed his fist into the table. “That doesn’t matter! All that does matter is that Talon still has her! So are you going to sit here and do nothing about it?”

            An incomprehensible mumble ran between the two Overwatch leaders.

            “Well?”

            “Her guard was taken out, and you say she has no tracking equipment on her?” Petras asked.

            “She did; a bracelet with an RFID hidden in the charm.”

            “Anything else?” Angela queried.

            “No. She hated having any sort of tracking mechanisms on her. It was hard enough to get her to wear the RFID.” He waved away the statement. “But Overwatch should be able to track it.”

            Petras and Gabrielle exchanged an uncomfortable look.

            “ _What?_ ” He knew those looks.  They never boded well. “I’m not giving up on her!” Gerard bellowed, standing up so fast his chair toppled with a clatter.

            “We’re not suggesting you do,” Angela told him soothingly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Overwatch will try to track her. But if we fail, there’s not much more we can do.”

            “You’re the  _only_ ones who can find her!” He yelled, staring incredulously around at them. How _dare_ they give up on him with everything he’d risked for them!

            “Then we’ll focus on tracking that RFID for now, okay?” Angela stood up too. “Come on; we’ll go talk to the others about this.” She stood and grasped his shoulders. He allowed her to steer him from the conference room, giving a last furious glare at the rest of Overwatch’s command. As Angela guided him away from the conference room, his thoughts turned to his wife.

            _Don’t let it be too late for me to save her. Please…_

****************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, guys. Hope all is well with your holiday season. 
> 
> I suppose at some point I should explain why I chose to write this, as well as give you some insight into where it's going. (And I promise you this is going somewhere other than just more character abuse.)
> 
> I got the desire to write this from Widow/Moira's interaction in game, and I really want to look at Widow's relationship with the rest of Talon, specifically how she relates to each of its members. I want to throw out some speculations about Widow's physical and psychological augmentation and conditioning. And last but not least, I want to explore how she really feels about what's being done/has been done to her and how her "two halves" coexist.
> 
> Again, I recognize that this is a non-canon story, and I hope to also dig into how various Talon members relate to one another in Smoke and Mirrors in a more canon-consistent fashion. 
> 
> I will be posting another chapter of this tomorrow (or Dec. 26, if I forget), and I really wanted to get this up before Christmas, as the next scene/chapter is quite seasonal in nature. 
> 
> (Let it also here be noted that I'm not particularly fond of the last scene in this chapter, and I may go back and edit it at some point.)
> 
> Thank you.


	5. Nollaig Shona

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Talon digs for cracks in Amelie's will; Amelie recalls a pleasant memory and the shadow that darkened it.

“Miss…Lacroix, is it?”

            The man sitting by her shoulder peered down at the papers he was holding, then tugged at a seam in his white coat.

            “I’m just here to ask you a few questions. Just relax; breathe normally. You’re going to be fine.”

            She was laid back in the room she’d initially woken up in, strapped into the chair once more, her head and chest bristling with electrodes placed by precise, quick technicians not bothered by her squirming. She had no idea why she was here or what the point of these tests were; she didn’t have the faintest clue what to expect. But questions, though…questions could mean an expectance to answer, which might mean pain if she refused.

            “Are you going to hurt me?” She rasped, staring at the ceiling.

            “No, no. Of course not,” the man said gently.

            “Then help me. Get me out of here.” She strained against the straps, gazing at him with pleading eyes.

            “Talon pays too well. Besides, I happen to agree with their philosophy. Darwinian theory supports that, you know. If there’s no drive to evolve, then life itself stagnates. We have to push ourselves for the better of everyone.”

            “I didn’t choose this!”

            “No one chooses strife, Miss Lacroix. It simply happens, and you either adapt, or falter.”

            _And die,_ she thought frantically. The doctor reached for something and brought up a tablet.

            “Not to worry. You’ll be at the forefront of it all, right up there with Mr. Reyes, another fine example of forced evolution. Moira is exceedingly talented; she’ll be careful with you.” He pulled something from his pocket. “Your vitals are through the roof, poor dear. I’m just going to give you some medicine to help you relax, and then we’ll be underway.”

            “I don’t need it,” she insisted, eyeing the syringe with dread.

“Nonsense.” He picked up a piece of rubber tubing and tied it tightly around her upper arm, waiting for the veins to swell. “You’re far too stressed out for this to work properly otherwise. There’s no need to get worked up.” He tore open a small packet and swabbed the inside of her elbow. The sharp smell of alcohol reached her.

            “Please!”

            “Don’t be afraid.” He gently squeezed her forearm, right above the wrist. “You’ll be fine.”

            She stared at him, betrayal and fury burning through her. The geneticist was certifiably insane, but how could he, a seemingly rational human being, support or justify this?

            “You’re a monster.” she spat.

            “A ‘monster’ is someone who does irrational harm. Neither Talon nor myself believe in blindly striking at people. There’s always a purpose. Think of it like the difference between a crazy man with a knife and a surgeon with a scalpel; one flails blindly, but the other’s hand is guided by purpose and skill.”

            “What _are_ you trying to accomplish, then? Other than destroying my life?”

            “Only the betterment of humanity. If we understand ourselves, how we think and function, down to a molecular level, imagine how many diseases, disorders, and mental illnesses could be eliminated. All that death and destruction, preventable if we only took the time to look more closely at ourselves.” He smiled contentedly. “And you’re just one step in our research.” He picked up the syringe and grasped her elbow, pressing her arm against the restraints in such a way she could not move it. “Okay; just a little pinch now.”

            She looked away, her teeth gritted in anger as his needle lanced one of her swollen veins. After a moment, he untied the tourniquet and pressed a cotton ball over the puncture, humming absentmindedly.

            “There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

She felt her blood run cold as the drug raced through her circulation, and she shuddered, her heart beating against her ribcage like a trapped bird.

            “Let it work, dear. You’ll feel better,” the doctor told her, his soft voice oddly soothing.

            A warm, numbing sense of calm settled over her; she could almost feel the weight of it, like a heavy blanket. The man stepped closer, placing a hand on her forehead and carefully pulling back one of her eyelids to check her pupils. She jerked, trying to shake him off, but her movement lacked any real strength. Her cheeks warmed, her head lolling back onto the headrest as her strength faded. She wanted so badly to close her eyes and fall asleep, but some fading part of her screamed that all was _not_ well and that she _had_ to stay awake.

            The doctor spoke again, his voice just as calm and easy to listen to as before. “Imagine yourself as a pebble dropped into a pond. The surface is rough and choppy from the wind, but as you sink deeper, the feel of the waves dissipates. It is calm and quiet here…”

The man continued to speak in his mesmerizing tone, and images bloomed in Amelie’s mind, dragging her somewhere that wasn’t quite the quiet pond bottom, but definitely wasn’t the lab. She dimly wondered if there had been some sort of psychedelic or hallucinogenic in the injection before the last of her awareness slipped away into dreams.

**************************

            The sweet taste of cherry and oak lingers on her tongue somewhere in the past, her husband’s kiss scratching pleasantly against her cheek as his mustache brushes her soft skin.           

            “ _Mon Papillion,”_ he purrs into her ear. Something inside her curls in delight at the sound of his voice, as deep and rich as the color of the wine she’s drinking. A soft tut draws her attention; an older woman, dressed in a soldier’s uniform, watches the two, a slight frown stretched across her sun-worn olive cheeks. 

            “Ana, don’t be such a stickler.” Gerard brandishes his glass of wine towards the woman. “Join the party.”

            “Once on duty, always on duty,” she retorts, but grudgingly takes a gingerbread cookie. Amelie’s mind wanders in time to Tchaikovsyk’s  Waltz of The Roses, which plays softly in the background under the chatter of others. Gerard introduced them all at one point, but she’s a little tipsy now and can’t quite remember all their names. They’re part of Overwatch, the international organization for justice and peace, and she’s seen the posters. It’s kind of strange to see the world-renowned heroes without their armor or uniforms on, dressed in suits and ties or fancy dresses for the Christmas party and carrying wine or beer. She supposes the surrealism factor isn’t helped by the fact the party is being hosted at the immaculately-decorated sprawling Lacroix estate, and the snow drifting past the windows is nearly six inches thick, obscuring and muffling everything. 

            Out here, right now, it really does feel like a fairy tale wonderland.

            At the dessert table, Amelie notices a blond-haired woman shoveling peanut-butter sweets into a box.

            “Are you going to take the entire cookie tray?” she asks.

            The woman spins around, nearly spilling the sweets, then smiles. “These aren’t for me. I have a good friend who loves peanut butter and has quite an appetite. Pity you couldn’t meet him, but he keeps to himself.” She extends her free hand. “Dr. Angela Ziegler.”

            “Pleased to meet you. I’m glad you could come. I know you must be a busy woman.” She shakes the doctor’s hand, then turns to the rest of the party. “Is this everyone? I though Overwatch would be bigger.”

            “This is everyone,” Angela confirms. “Except two. But like I said, they keep to themselves. Gerard was such a dear; he’s letting me take this home to them.”

            “Why didn’t the other person come? Good food, good wine, good company…you’d be stupid to miss this.” Amelie gestures to the room.

            Angela’s smile fades a little. “Oh. She’s a workaholic; she can’t seem to stop herself from ducking out of every social scenario on account of being “busy”.”

            “But you’re here, and from what I heard, you’re pretty busy as well.”

            “I actually make time for social events, unlike her. Don’t take it personally.” She turns to the rest of the party. “Castle Guillard is beautiful. Would you take me on a tour?”

            “Oh! Of course.” She led the Overwatch doctor away from the ballroom and out into the drafty corridors bedecked with real evergreen and twinkling fairy lights.

            “So do you have a string of portraits from your family members?”

            Amelie’s cheeks warm. “Oh, no. My family wasn’t like that.”

            “You owned a castle but you weren’t _that_ rich, hm?”

“My father’s line was never much for standing still, even if it was for having their portraits done.” She shivered a little, regretting the sleeveless white dress she wore.

            “We should get you back to the fire before too long. I would feel irresponsible if you caught a cold.”

            The dancer shrugs nonchalantly. “It’s better here in the winter than the summer.”

            Dr. Ziegler raises an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

            “Oh, not the weather. The spiders.” Amelie grimaces, thinking of the many blunders into their webs while dusting or moving things and the sticky, nearly-invisible residue left behind.

            “Ah. I understand. Arachnophobia; very common.”

            Amelie laughs. “You sound like such a _doctor_ when you say it like that.”

            “Technically, I am, so I can’t really help it.” The Swiss woman shrugs. “It’s just what I do.”

            _“Amelie?”_ A voice calls down the corridor, echoing strangely. _“Mon Cherie? Where are you?”_

            “Gerard,” Amelie sighs, folding her arms. He always treats her like a wayward child when he loses track of her in crowded areas, calling for her and running after her. The tuxedoed man comes hustling around the corner like a penguin with wine-reddened cheeks, his mustache drooping in concern. He was always making such a big fuss about this or that concerning her. _Keep in contact. Wear your RFID when you go out. Text me when you’ve reached your location_. _Don’t leave the location without notifying your bodyguards._ He gave her a pocket-sized Taser as an engagement gift, but doesn’t want her knowing anything about his work or learning martial arts on the grounds it’s “too dangerous” and “too public”. If bad people learn to associate her with him, he says, she will be in unspecified danger.

            “Ah, there you are. I was worried. Come here, _mon papillon.”_ He holds out an arm, indicating the empty space by his side. She makes her way over and gets a whiskery, affectionate peck on the cheek. “Thank you for looking out for her, Dr. Ziegler. There’s an intruder in the castle, and I just want to make sure Amelie is safe.”

Amelieand Dr. Ziegler stiffen simultaneously.

            “It’s being dealt with, but better safe than sorry.” He waves their concern away, then straightens, pressing a hand to his earpiece. “Lacroix.” He nods after a moment, then sighs. “All right. I’ll be there.” He puts a hand around Amelie’s shoulder. “Go back to the party with Dr. Ziegler. Morrison, Amari, Reyes and I have the situation under control.”

            Amelie straightens, indignation at being brushed aside flaring. “I want to know what’s going on.”

            “Then I’ll tell you later.”

            “I never get to know your business. If it’s not a problem, let me go with you,” she insists, raising her chin challengingly.

            Gerard hesitates.

            “Mrs. Lacroix, I really don’t think you should-“ Angela starts, but Gerard cuts her off, turning to the doctor. “It’s just an unexpected guest, Dr. Ziegler. I just get very concerned about _mon cygne_.” He rubs Amelie’s shoulder.

            “If you say so, Gerard.” She casts a last dubious look at the pair and turns away.

            “Do as I say. Understand? I don’t want something happening to you,” Gerard murmurs, his voice quiet but sharp, his attention now focused solely on her.

            “Understood,” Amelie says, rolling her eyes, but follows curiously. He leads her to the entrance hall and bids her stay on the wide landing above the staircase. Down on the marble floor stand six individuals; she recognizes Morrison, Amari, and Reyes from their hair and dress clothes. Two others are security guards bundled in winter gear, their Overwatch ski hats pulled low across their foreheads, and the sixth is a total stranger. From this vantage point, Amelie can’t tell if the person is a man or woman, but the individual is incredibly slight and tall, spikes of red hair peeking from beneath a black Santa hat embroidered with blocky white text that reads _Bah Humbug_. The rest of the person’s outfit is just as austere as their frame; a neatly-pressed  black business suit, complete with blue-grey tie.

            “ _Really,_ Gabriel, I expected better than this. It’s not exactly _difficult_ to recognize me, after all,” the stranger drawls in a deep feminine voice, an Irish accent giving a lilt to her voice. She sounds peeved, but the cant of her chin and general posture remains unhostile and prim despite the indignity of the armed escorts next to her.

            “Sorry, Doc, but rules are rules. We have a lot of important people here today, and we can’t bend the rules,” Morrison’s hard voice echoes through the hall.

            “Why _wasn’t_ I invited to this little fling anyway? Was I not important enough?”

            “We thought it might interrupt you. We assumed you wouldn’t want to come,” Ana says defensively.

            The stranger scoffs. “Being presumptuous makes you look like a fool when you are proven wrong. Human behavior in particular is idiosyncratic; assume nothing when dealing with others.”

            “How _did_ you find your way here?” Reyes asks, the rasp in his voice faint but distinctive.

            “Someone left their invite in the mess hall, Gabriel.” She explains, then looks to the other two Overwatch members. “I suppose you’re going to tell me I was wrong to look at it even though it was left in a public space?”

            “Weren’t you just talking about presumption? What about you turning up uninvited?” Ana shot at the woman. Amelie got the distinct impression that Amari really didn’t like a whole lot of people, including her and this doctor.

            The Irish woman dismissed the jab with a flick of her hand. “Please. The invite didn’t specify members, just Overwatch in general.”

            “I apologize, Mo-Aaron, my dear,” Gerard cut in, presumably to stop the escalating argument. “I didn’t wish to disturb you with some silly get-together. I didn’t realize you were that interested in social gatherings.” He made a short bow. “Perhaps I should add you to future guest lists?”

            “Interested in social gatherings, no. But I do rather enjoy Christmas. It’s a good reason to leave the lab.”

            “I will make a mental note, Doctor. Join us?” He gestures to the stairs, and the doctor’s eyes rise, flicking across the banister lining the second floor. Her gaze lingers on Amelie for a long moment, then returns to the others. She pauses a long moment, thinking about it.

“Perhaps for a few moments.” She brushes by the others blocking her way and ascends the steps, carrying herself with the sort of regal arrogance that a queen would actually have. She gives Amelie a small smirk as she passed, eyeing her out of the corner of one intensely sapphire eye.

“Good evening, Miss Lacroix,” she says as she passes. Amelie stares at her, then follows her, intrigued and a little incensed by the strange woman. Who is she, why has she never seen or heard of this woman before, and how is she  connected with Gerard? The chatter from the ballroom drops in volume as the doctor enters the space, the people nearest the door staring at the doctor.

“Well, don’t all stop on my account,” she scoffs, making her way across to the cookies and choosing a gingerbread man, examining it with the care of a jeweler examining a stone before snapping the legs off between perfectly aligned white teeth. She looks up, catching Amelie with her unbelievably intense gaze.

“Yes, Miss Lacroix?”

“How do you know me? I don’t think we’ve met before.”

The woman smiles. “So blunt. But I like your curiosity. I’ve heard your husband talk about you enough that I would know you simply by sight. Besides, you have a little bit of a limp and you favor your right-side toes. Some old ballet injury, perhaps?” She smiles. “As for me, I’m just a nobody from the R&D department of Overwatch.” She pulls out her ID and passes it to Amelie, then takes off one of the cookie’s arms with meticulous precision. The ID says Aaron Meharry, and the information on the tag backs up her story; Overwatch R&D.

“I’m sorry. I thought you looked familiar.” She returns the tag to the Amazonian woman, who pockets it and bites off the cookie’s grinning head.

“I can’t imagine why. Like you said, we haven’t exactly met. By the way, would you happen to know where I could find the ingredients for a whiskey sour?”

Amelie points a finger to the wet bar. “Whiskey’s on the third shelf, far right.”

“Thank you, dear. I do appreciate the hospitality.” Aaron smiles, sharp and thin, and straightens and walks away, presumably to get her drink. Amelie watches her move through the cluster of people; she slips between them like a cat wriggling out of small spaces, so quiet and deft that some of the others start and withdraw at her sudden presence. Amelie frowns. Her coworkers may not like the woman, but she doesn’t quite understand the animosity directed at the doctor. Sure, the woman seems like she can be a bit rude at times, but not so rude that she wouldn’t be on a general invite list for a company party.

“Be careful around her.”

Amelie starts and turns to find Dr. Ziegler standing behind her, scowling at the black Santa hat bobbing at the bar.

“What do you have against her?”

“I know her well enough. Let me put it this way; she’s not a nice person.”

“I can make my own assumptions about her,” Amelie says defensively, pulling away from the blond woman.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt by the likes of her.” Ziegler warns.

“You’re telling me Overwatch hires untrustworthy people?”

“No, but-“

Amelie turns away from the woman. “I’m going to find Gerard,” she says in feigned disgust, trying to shake the sudden spike of anxiety making her heart race. What does Dr. Ziegler mean by that? Maybe it’s just the wine making her react irrationally. Yes. She’s had three glasses of champagne and two of wine; she’s just overreacting because she’s tipsy.

Angry voices rise from the entry hall, and she approaches, stopping out of sight.

“-nothing!? Honestly, Lacroix? What if you get hurt or killed? What are you going to tell her then? You know you’re making yourself and her a target. How is she going to react or defend herself if they come after her?” Amari says, her voice low but harsh.

“What will I tell her _now_? A huge amount of my work is classified; she can’t be running around with those secrets for the precise reasons _you_ mentioned.” Gerard’s retort is louder.

“You saw how she was following Meharry around! She doesn’t have the faintest clue who poses a threat to her!”

“Meharry is under Overwatch protocol. She’s not dangerous so long as we can control her.”

“But you _can’t_ guarantee you can control her, can you? For all you know, she could already be in Talon’s pocket, and you don’t suspect a damn thing! Do yourself a favor and teach your clueless, fool wife some self-defense for her own goddamned safety as much as your own!”

Amari storms off, leaving Gerard sputtering after her. Amelie doesn’t ask about the confrontation, slipping quietly back into the ballroom without a word. She notices Meharry lingering in the back corner, where she’s often found spiderwebs and sizeable arachnids, but she squelches the instinct to warn the Irish woman. Meharry probably wouldn’t care much anyway. 

            The next day, Gerard comes home with martial arts equipment and begins to teach her between rounds of questions about Overwatch, but he keeps dodging the questions about the Irish doctor. After a long day of practice, she decides to let it drop.

            Overwatch is trustworthy, she decides. It _has_ to be.

            …Right?

            *************************

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know; it's a day late. 
> 
> I hope you all had a very happy holiday season with friends and family, and I hope you enjoyed this. The next chapter may be a bit delayed in coming, (I need to finish it) but it's on its way. 
> 
> Nollaig Shona!


	6. Spiral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira gets furious, and everyone else is depressed.  
> *Warnings for hallucinogen use and depression...on top of everything else.*  
> ********************

She thought the light and noise might be akin to being born.

            She could pick out patterns in the sounds, if she cared to, timeless masterpieces playing at deafening top volume, but they made little sense and had even less meaning, save for whatever purpose those who were playing said sounds imbued them with. Obscure purposes aside, though, the earth-shattering snares and the ear-rending brass were stopping her from sleeping.

            She supposed, bleakly, that that was the point.

            She had clamped her hands over her ears, begged her tormentors repeatedly for it to stop, tearfully asked that she be able to sleep, but the lights stayed on and the music kept playing.

            Sleeplessness caught up with her quickly, leaving her too fatigued to struggle much when one of Talon’s white-coats entered and gave her the injection. She felt the needle-mark long after the terrorist had left again, but she didn’t quite comprehend what the shot had been for.

            Until the hallucinations started.

            Half-remembered fever-dreams pummeled her like a physical representation of the audible assault, half-melted nutcrackers and headless swans, their flesh drooping off malformed bodies, pecked and struck at her. Time and again she dragged herself back to partial reality only to find another white-coated individual standing over her, holding a syringe, the bite of which sent her spiraling down into another hellish nightmare full of giant, red-eyed spiders, their chelicerae dripping while they bore down on her helpless form.

            The cycle dragged on and on and on, for days or weeks or months. She had no sense of time inside the cell, and no sense of time inside her nightmares. Food came periodically, but she didn’t know if it was on a specific schedule or if it was given randomly, and she frequently felt too sick to eat anyway. Sometimes they took her out of her cell and brought her places, but she could not remember what they did when they were there.

            Sometimes the injections brought sleep, and sometimes she dreamed of her husband. She woke up after these dreams, clutching her pillow, afraid and alone.

            _Find me_ became her hourly plea to her husband, her hourly hope, the spark of desperate hope she clung to amidst the insanity, yet with every day that passed, her seemingly simple request seemed like an increasingly impossible task.

            **********************************

            “How long have you had him?”

            “Gerard-“

            “How long, Ziegler?! Answer me!”

            “About six hours. Gerard, please, you’re not-”

            “And you _still_ haven’t gotten anything out of him?” He tried to push by the Swiss doctor, but she blocked his way, her expression stiffening.

            “I can’t let you. You know that, right?”

            “Get out of my way, Ziegler,” he growled.

            “No. You are too emotionally involved in this. Sit down, or I will have Winston come and sit _on_ you.”

            He glared furiously at her, and she stared coldly back, her hands on her hips. Murmuring a couple choice French curses, he flung himself into the nearest chair.

            “Thank you. Now listen closely.” She took the other seat and pulled up a video log. A sweaty, pale-faced man sat across from Jesse, wringing his hands and glancing at the camera.

            “So tell me again,” Jesse said, shaping the words thickly around his cigar, “what happened that night?”

            “I _told_ you. Please let me go. I’ve been answering your questions for hours.”

            “You told someone else. Not me. So what’s your story?” Jesse challenged.

            “I-“ The man rubbed his forehead. “It was about time for the bar to open, so I go in back and look at my stock. I hear this noise, and I go investigate, and I find this-I don’t know- Spanish… Latino, maybe… kid poking around in my stores. She’s got one of my beers in one hand and a gun in the other. Says the lost beer is the least of my worries and tells me that if I don’t do what she says, the law’s gonna find out about my tax evasion! You know how long a jail sentence that is? I got three kids at home!” He gestures furiously, desperation etched in every line of his face.

            “What happened next?” Jesse asked, his tone low but sharp.

            “She tells me that I can make this problem disappear if I do something for her. So I ask, and she tells me that there’s a lady stopping by the bar tonight. She says she’ll identify the target for her if I put something in the lady’s drink, and she hands me an unmarked pill.”

            “Why didn’t you just slip it in  _her_ glass?” Jesse pressed.

            “Because she warned me not to double-cross her. She did some trick; vanished and reappeared all the way on the other side of the room to show me that her bosses meant business and had the resources to spend to track my family down if I didn’t cooperate.”

            “Did she say who she was working for?”

            “No, but clearly they had money and power if they were able to do a trick like that!”

            “Clearly,” McCree muttered. “The woman you drugged; was anything taken from her?”

            “Yeah. A bracelet. But I don’t get what’s important about it. The kid gave it to me after I did the deal, like she wanted me to keep a reminder or something.”

            “She didn’t want us able to trace the woman, because her phone was found smashed to pieces in the street outside. The bracelet was how we found you.”

            “I didn’t know…” the man moaned.

            “Your contact didn’t tell you the woman’s husband worked for Overwatch?”

            The man paled and glanced at the camera in panic. “R-really? Is he here? Is he watching?”

            “Relax. I can keep him away, if you answer my questions.”

            “What else could I tell you? The man whimpered. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

            “Did your contact give you any additional information? Contact info, meeting dates or times, follow-up conversations?”

            “No.”

            “What did this individual look like?”

            “ A woman, about one and two-thirds meters, early thirties at the oldest. Shoulder-length hair on one side of her head, dyed purple and silvery. Practically bald on the other  side, with glowing purple strips in the side of her head. Couldn’t tell if it was tattoos or cybernetics.”

            Angela stopped the recording. “Gerard, we haven’t been able to identify this woman he’s talking about.”

            “You _have_ to have footage. The security cameras from the bar? Surely they picked up a picture of her?”

            “We tried to get into the security cameras’ files, but the data was corrupted. We’re trying to reconstruct the footage, but our analysts are doubtful that they can. We think that the corruption was caused by a computer virus. Whoever did this did _not_ want us watching those security tapes.”

            “He’s lying, then. Keep asking until you get the truth.”

            “We did. He’s answered the same questions and given the same or similar responses twenty-seven times now. I even checked his pupillary responses to make sure he wasn’t lying. He’s telling the truth, Gerard. He really doesn’t know who this woman is.”

            “ _Fuck,”_ he choked, dropping his head into his hands. “Then how do we find her? Or my wife? Or _someone_ who knows what’s going on?”

            “Our best hope is just to keep a close watch on things. And pray we get lucky.” Angela said, her voice heavy with sadness. “We’ll keep an eye out for her, Gerard. Go rest.”

            Gerard staggered from the chair and wandered, zombie-like, into the clean, quiet, empty infirmary. He crashed on a bed, curled up, and fell asleep, hugging the pillow.

            The antiseptic smell stole into his dreams, which morphed into twisted, shadowed nightmares. He ran down endless empty white hallways that smelled of sterility, searching for the sound of his wife’s distant weeping. When he started awake, his cheeks were damp with tears.

            *****************************************

            “Wieber.”

            The psychologist started and looked up at Moira. “Doctor. I presumed you were occupied.”

            “I have time to fill. The lab machines are all busy. How is Lacroix?”

            “Surprisingly stubborn.” He handed over a tablet sporting the Widowmaker files.

            Moira thumbed through the information and scoffed. “Arachnophobia. I thought she’d be less predictable.”

            “It _is_ a common phobia. It’s effective, at any rate.”

            “Progress?”

            “Less than I hoped, but more than I expected.”

            “Good. Maximilien’s investors are up in arms about project expenses.”

            Wieber shrugged. “It’s mostly on your end.”

            “And I’m working on getting results. But if Lacroix is not ready on your end, then my progress is further delayed, and Talon risks losing valuable financial assets.”

            “Civilian minds are delicate, Moira. Have a little bit of patience. You’ll get her as soon as I’m done.”

            “They’re threatening to send outside help into my lab for _monitoring_ purposes.”

            Wierber nodded in understanding. “Then just tell them to piss off. You’re the head of this project.”

            “I’d love to, but they still need proof that the project is on schedule or they’ll yank all funding.”

            “I’ll send you the updated files tonight. We’re almost ready to start the switch into intensive conditioning.”

            “Grand. I want that report.”

            “Noted, Doctor. Thank you.”

            Moira departed Wieber’s observation room and headed back towards her lab. She opened the door, nearly bumping into someone standing just inside, watching a group of a few others scuffle about her lab. The individual started and turned, then held out a hand in greeting.

            “Doctor O’Deorain.”

            She ignored the offered hand. “What are you doing in _my_ lab?” She asked bluntly, her tone flat and cold and dangerous.

            “We’re here on Vialli’s behalf to monitor your current projects.”

            Moira reeled. They’d threatened her with this not a week ago. She hadn’t been expecting intruders so soon.

            “I didn’t ask for your help.”

            “Vialli thought it best-“ The help started.

            Moira bristled. _Of_ course _Vialli had called in these ‘specialists’.  “Vialli_ is a financially-minded individual. He doesn’t have the mind for complex sciences,” she bit out, cutting the help off.

            “We’re just here to keep an eye-“ the scientist retorted.

            “On my projects?” She scoffed. “Are my progress reports not good enough?”

            “Vialli thought-“

             The last of her patience evaporated. “Enough!” She barked, shouldering by the help. “Out! All of you!”

            They all froze and looked at her.

            “OUT! This is MY  lab and my project! I did not ask for your assistance, nor do I require it! Get out!”

            They hastily filed past her, and she locked the door behind them. A few minutes later, her communicator began to buzz. She squashed the instinct to throw it upon seeing who was calling.

            “Vialli. I returned your… _gift…_ to sender _._ ”

            _“O’Deorain. Why have you dismissed them? Are you not aware how much money we’ve pumped into this thing?”_

“And are _you_ not aware that interference, especially in the shape of other people inside my lab, slows me down? I have my own staff for menial tasks and errand-running. I do not need more help, nor would I ever ask for it.”

            “ _The Widowmaker project is an incredibly expensive investment! Where are the results, O’Deorain?”_

“Are you not aware of how complex or how difficult this project is? We’re not using disposable prototypes anymore; Lacroix will be the final product of our research. We can’t risk killing or hurting her for the sake of speed and saving money.”

            “ _And here I thought you liked to move science quickly, O’Deorain.”_ Vialli snapped, his tone icy.

“I do. But if you’re expecting a flawless final product quickly and cheaply, look for an Omnium, not my research.”

            _“You’re saying your product will be flawed.”_

She ground her teeth. “I’m saying that it will take substantially _more_ time than you think, though I assure you I stand by my work with pride. But I need _space and time_ , two components you seem even less willing to give than money.”

            “ _You’re taking your sweet-“_

“Gabriel Reyes.”

            “ _Excuse me?”_

“You’re pushing dangerously close to calling my work fruitless, and here I will remind you that another living weapon, Gabriel Reyes, exists. He took far longer and was much more expensive, cumulatively speaking, than the Widowmaker project. Are you not happy with him?”

            Silence.

            “Let me do my _work_ , Vialli. This is _my_ project, and I will maintain control of it. No surveillance, no audits. Am I clear?”

            “ _I want results,”_ Vialli sputtered, sounding like an angry child running out of arguments.

            “And you will have them when I have them. Not before.”

            Silence again. She imagined Vialli sulking in his teakwood-paneled office.

            “Good day.”

            She hung up and spent the next three hours sweeping her lab for bugs before forwarding the results of Lacroix’s conditioning.

********************

Hey, lookie there. I published again. 

I've got loads more ready for you guys. Just say the word. 

Yes, this chapter is depressing, but this story is a tragedy, so....

Anyway, hope you liked it. The most effed-up is yet to come!


	7. Widening Webs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sombra overhears something that piques her curiosity and sends her data-mining. Amelie attempts to escape. Moira plans the first of her weapon's genetic changes and proposes a way to test the strength of her subject's conditioning.

*********************

Sombra spun herself in slow circles, leaning back in the chair and chewing idly at a nail, watching the cameras. Guard duty was definitely the worst of any job on the base; she’d much rather be digging up dirt on the world’s big-time politicians, and at least writing code had some productive outcome. This…this just took up an entire shift with little to show for it except for the fact the prisoner stayed in place. She didn’t even really see the point; Moira’s subject had already been implanted with a tracker, and she could pretty easily find the signal (designed by none other than Sombra herself, thank you very much). Lacroix wasn’t going anywhere.

            On-screen, a guard approached the cell, followed by a doctor. Probably time for one of Lacroix’s “sessions”. They had stopped for a few days, but were scheduled to resume today. Moira had mentioned something about the drugs clearing Lacroix’s body before continuing with conditioning, something about multiplicative effects of certain chemical compounds and frying Lacroix’s brain. Sombra didn’t really like to think about it all that much. Forget what she had done; the psychs who worked for Talon put a whole new definition to the term “shady business”. Sombra enjoyed playing mind games with people, but she still considered herself just above actual torture. She’d seen the way that the dancer twitched and muttered incomprehensibly after each encounter, and she had not the faintest bit of doubt in her mind; they were mind-fucking the woman, and they were mind-fucking her _good_ , probably aided by a liberal dose of one of Moira’s concoctions. She may not really approve, but Talon’s paycheck was enough to keep her on-board and supervising something like this. Besides, she had no interest in winding up on Moira’s lab table, and the geneticist kept dropping hints about wanting to analyze her cybernetics. The Irish doctor poked and prodded her enough when she got injured, grumbling all the while that if she could just take a closer look at the electronics lacing Sombra’s body, she could more effectively treat the hacker when Sombra got injured. _It’ll be a cold day in hell, chica. You may have suckered Reaper in, but you’re not getting me._

Besides, her hardware _and_ software were both custom, and she was _damned_ if she let Moira botch the years of fine-tuning and programming she’d put into her cybernetic links.

            The guard had entered the cell and was trying to get the dancer to move. The woman was resisting obstinately, prompting the man to reach for his Taser. Sombra sat up, watching curiously, but the feed was obscured by a pop-up window. _New message._ Sombra rolled her eyes and opened it. Why couldn’t it have been sent five minutes ago, when nothing was happening? The sender’s tag recovered her mood slightly; every week or so she swapped Moira’s tag with a different mad scientist from history, and this week’s tag was Dr. K, inspired by Dr. Kevorkian. Moira kept reminding her that she wasn’t in fact, insane, but Sombra had yet to see evidence of that.

            The message itself consisted no more than three words: ETA <five minutes. Short and concise. Predictably so, considering the sender. She glanced at the time stamp, two minutes previous, and frowned. She’d have to do something about the transmission speed if she could. She swiped the message aside, glanced at the screen, and stiffened.

            The guard was face-down on the floor, the Taser embedded in his body, and Lacroix was slipping through the door, her hands clamped around the guard’s baton.

            Sombra locked all the doors in the science wing with a few flicks of her hand, then relaxed and watched the scene play out, smiling to herself. She was curious about the dancer’s skills with a weapon, and if the doc or Reaper got mad at her for this little incident, she could always claim that it was a good opportunity to gather intel on the woman. Moira at least wouldn’t argue with that reasoning, and they could always track their captive down if they had to.

            Onscreen, the French woman charged from her cell and swung the baton as hard as she could at the startled psych’s head, felling him with a single blow. Sombra winced slightly and ran her hands over her cybernetics. He would have a major concussion when he woke up, if not a fractured skull. The doc would have work to do when she finally got back. Speaking of which…

            Sombra switched the cameras over to the hangar, where one of Talon’s VTOLs was settling, the whine of its engines spooling down. The hacker pinged the crazy scientist on her private channel.

            “ _Yes?”_

“’ey, Doc. Your little subject’s loose. Thought you might want to know.”

            “ _I’m gone barely a day and you can’t even handle watching the security feed,”_ Moira growled. Her diminutive form came running out of the dropship, followed by Reaper’s much broader form. Moira’s voice snapped gratingly in her ear.

            _“What happened?”_

“Bad timing, really. I don’t see what you’re making such a fuss about. She hasn’t left the lab wing. If you hurry, you might catch her.”

            Reaper growled something about ending Moira’s experiment, and Moira responded acidly that it was _hers_. Sombra raised an eyebrow, surprised Reaper would so wantonly threaten to mess with Moira’s test subjects. Sure, Sombra herself liked to encrypt, hack, or straight-up hide Moira’s stuff just to get on her nerves, but she knew to draw the line at actually toying with the geneticist’s results. And threatening to kill Moira’s human lab rats…well, that was just _loco_ , especially considering the resources spent on acquiring said subjects. Maybe there was something to the fact that Moira let him get away with so much…

            “ _Did you get video?”_ Moira’s sharp voice interrupted her thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah, Doc. I got it. I also closed off the lab doors for you, you’re welcome. The door’s cracked, so you should still be able to get in, though. Tell me how it goes, yeah?” Sombra plucked the comm piece from her ear and rolled it between her fingers, leaning back in her seat. This would be an interesting chase…

***********************************

            Amelie’s heart hammered furiously against her rib cage, and she glanced backward again, gripping the baton more securely. She hadn’t meant to hit the man so hard he collapsed like that, but there was no time to think on it. By now _someone_ had to know she’d gotten free, and that had to mean they’d trigger alarms or warn the guards at any moment now. Talon was coming, and it was just a matter of time.

            She squeezed the steel rod reassuringly. She had a weapon; hopefully she wouldn’t run into anyone, but if she did, she hoped she could defend herself. The first time, with the guard, that had been a matter of taking the man by surprise, but they’d probably be far more prepared and numerous when they came. She had to get out before they found her.

            She rounded a corner, straining her hearing for any trace of feet running after her, but heard nothing. Fine by her, but where the hell was the door out of here? She crossed to another of the recessed passageways and tried it, but it did not respond to her touch. Locked, she suspected. Why was everything locked? How did Talon get in and out in an emergency if all the doors locked? Had she triggered some kind of security protocol, and if so, why didn’t she hear alarms blaring?

She swung the baton nervously. Were they waiting for her, planning an ambush somewhere so they could jump her? There were just too many possibilities to consider, and all of them made her _really_ nervous. What would happen when they caught her? _If_ they caught her, she scolded herself. She couldn’t think negatively. If she did, she would never escape, and she _had_ to before Talon finished their work on her. If she didn’t…She shuddered and pushed the thought away. She didn’t know the outcome of the project Talon had in mind for her, but it couldn’t be anything good. Especially if _She_ was involved, disturbing, manipulative witch of a scientist…

Movement caught her attention, and she whirled, her baton scything through the opaque cloud of black smoke billowing after her. She gasped and stumbled back a few paces, swinging out wildly, then turned and bolted, her heart pounding against her chest as though the muscle was trying to punch through her ribcage. The world went dark as the smoke enveloped her, and the air temperature suddenly dropped. Before she had time to register what happened, the smoke passed, solidifying into a figure in front of her. She swung at it, this time aiming for its head, and the rod connected with a sickening _crack._ The figure groaned and staggered, clutching at the mask and hood covering its face.  She didn’t stop to see if the person beneath was okay, sprinting in the other direction as fast as possible.

She skidded around the corner and had a half-second to take in the woman blocking the end of the hall, a dark sphere in her palm, before she flicked her hand, sending the orb flying through the air. Amelie drew back her arm to strike at the orb, but rather than making contact with the object, her blow sailed _through_ the phantasmal sphere, and a moment later, the sphere passed through _her._

 _Pain._ World-shattering, thought-obliterating pain seized her, driving all breath from her body and all rational thought from her mind. There was only the pain and the need to escape it. She crumpled like a paper sack being stepped on and lay there twitching, unable to draw enough breath to scream. The pain faded far more slowly than it had come, and she struggled through it. People were talking, and after a long, sluggish moment she was able to make out what they were saying.

“Dear me. That didn’t quite go as planned, did it?” An accented voice purred.

A pair of shoes appeared next to her, and she tilted her head, looking up, way up, at a figure swathed in loose, dark clothing, only recognizable by her shock of red hair. Strong hands grasped at her clothing and arms, dragging her to her feet. She dangled in the man’s grasp, her nerves still buzzing with pain. A cold hand tipped with sharp nails grasped her chin, mashing her cheeks, and forced her gaze up. Amelie stared blankly at the woman, vaguely registering her strange clothing and stranger apparatuses perched on her back and wrapped around her disfigured hands. O’Deorain smiled at her, the curl of her lips not reaching the icy glitter of her eyes.

Amelie lunged forward, intending to headbutt the woman’s smug face in, but her forehead connected with only thin air, the scientist herself vanishing in a puff of dark smoke. A second later she reappeared, just within arms’ reach but far outside Amelie’s current range of motion. Amelie stared at the woman, numb with shock. _She had the same abilities as the other stranger._

“I do believe Gabriel is right this time. I’ve tried to warn you, Miss Lacroix, but it seems you’re just too stubborn to listen.” As the Irish woman spoke, a sphere of crackling purple-black energy swelled in her palm. “I don’t like to apply pain, but it is an effective teacher in certain situations.”

She barely heard the woman. The name _Gabriel_ rang in her head like a familiar chord; she _knew_ aGabriel Reyes from Overwatch; he’d been at that Christmas dinner party! How could he be here, now, helping Talon? How could he _do_ this to her?  
            “Gabriel, listen!” She pleaded, hoping against hope her suspicions were correct and that she could get through to him. “You know me, and you knew Gerard. You’re a good man! You _can’t_ let them do this!” She writhed in his arms, desperate to get away from O’Deorain’s mysterious orbs of pure pain.

Reyes just stood there, saying nothing.

The pain slammed into her again like a freight train, every muscle in her body seizing, every nerve misfiring and sending scrambled messages that amounted to PAIN throughout every fiber of her being. It could have been a second, but it seemed to last an eternity before it faded.

“Reyes isn’t Overwatch anymore, dear. And neither am I,” The geneticist told her when she gathered enough strength to look up at the woman.

“You’re not worthy of Overwatch, you traitorous _bitch_ ,” Amelie spat. “They never should have trusted you.”

The pain hit her again, and again it took ages to fade. When she clawed her way back to hellish reality, she could taste blood.

“If I were you, I wouldn’t speak to me like that. It might cause me to lose my temper.” O’Deorain said, her voice edged with deadly calm. “You know nothing about me.”

“I know _enough_ ,” Amelie retorted. “You took a good man and you destroyed him, and now you’re going to do the same to me!” She couldn’t stop the furious tears.

The doctor smiled. “Now see, Miss Lacroix, that’s what you fail to understand. I didn’t destroy Gabriel Reyes. I saved his life.”

“Then why…” She looked at the scientist, unable to form her scattered thoughts into words.

“Why is he the way he is?” The geneticist looked up at Reyes. “Why don’t you tell her, Gabriel?”

“Idiosyncrasies,” the masked man growled.

“The same experimental treatment yields different results in different individuals, Miss Lacroix. Mr. Reyes and I are very different, yet I only subtly altered the treatment I used on myself to give me his unique abilities. A pity the revised version wasn’t available at the time of your treatment, hmm, Gabriel?”

“Too bad,” Reyes grumbled.

            “Indeed. But we’ll get it figured out eventually.” Her fingers twitched spider-like around another orb as it swelled in her palm. She held it out towards Amelie, examining its internal flickering curiously. The dancer pressed herself into Reyes’ chest, her breathing short and harsh. The geneticist brought the orb closer, almost touching her face with the flickering sphere. Amelie leaned backward, gasping, desperate to escape contact. The geneticist looked into her eyes, then closed a fist around the orb, crushing it into dark mist. Amelie flinched as the woman’s long fingers stroked her cheek. The expected pain didn’t come, but still she felt defiled by the touch.

            “Good. You’re learning. Hopefully I won’t need to use this method to convince you to behave again, but do know that I consider it an option if you’re going to cause me or Mr. Reyes here any more trouble.” Moira smirked. “Rational or not, Miss Lacroix, we’re all driven by our basic instincts. And those same instincts will eventually drive you right back into Talon’s grasp, whether you like it or not. The true question is not whether you will accept this, but how much…repetition…it will take for you to accept it. But you should know that the sooner you do accept it, the easier this will be on you.” She turned, still smiling in that horrible self-satisfied way. “Mr. Reyes, if you would help me out, that would be appreciated. There is one more demonstration I’d like to make.”

***************************

            Moira gritted her teeth as her phone buzzed against the tabletop for the…sixth?…time in a row. She’d had four cups of coffee and about as much sleep; the last thing she wanted to do was answer the phone like a secretary. The caller was persistent, though, that much she had to give them credit for. All fine and well but for the fact the caller was _interrupting her work_ , which happened to be right in the middle of a very complex stage. The infernal device stopped for a breath, then began again. She swore and spun, catching her graduated cylinder that wobbled dangerously in her haste to turn, and snatched the phone up, barely registering the name in time to keep herself from cursing in Gaelic into the mic.

            “Maximilien.”

            _“Doctor O’Deorain. Did I catch you at an inopportune time?”_

“You could say that. I’m sure you know that I’m very preoccupied with my work right now.”

            “ _I apologize._ ” Typical Maximilien. Ever the gentleman, despite his ties with Talon. It was ironic, really.

            “To what do I owe the pleasure, Maximilien? I presume this is not a social call, considering your knowledge of my current project.”

            “ _I’m afraid not. The investors are concerned, especially with the most recent report._ ”

            She scoffed. “And I assume they’re wanting to know the status of my project.”

            _“It’s been nearly three weeks, Doctor. And I don’t need to tell you how exorbitant your project is._ ”

            “Science takes time and funding, Maximilien.”

            The Omnic sighed into the phone, a noise somewhere between a buzz and a crackle. _“I am sure that your work is indeed a challenge. But without results, I don’t know how much longer I can guarantee their funding.”_

Moira scowled. “ _Find_ a way, then. I can’t complete my studies without funding.”

            _“I need results, Doctor.”_

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “All I can give you is the results of previous tests. They’ve seen those results; that’s why they backed the project in the first place. Or so you tell me.”

            “ _You’re not wrong. But I need fresh data.”_

“The subject is not ready yet. This current stage consists mostly of psychological conditioning, and it’s too early to see results.”

            “ _You know I can’t help you if you can’t get results.”_

“Are you threatening me, Maximilien?” She asked, her voice cold and flat.

            “ _Perceive it how you want, Doctor. But I have always been on your side. I know you always produce for us, but I am concerned that the others may not think otherwise. I need those results.”_

 _“Dia tr_ _ócaire.”_ She spat. “ _Fine,_ but they’re nowhere near complete.”

            “ _At least tell me you have a method for completing phase one.”_

            “Did you think I’d go into this blind? I have plans and back-up plans and back-ups if my back-ups fail. I’d prefer not to use them unless I have to; they may cause more harm than good in the long run.”

            “ _Please enlighten me.”_

She rubbed at her forehead. “To effectively condition the subject, we must make her more frightened to leave than she is of us. Since Talon does intend her to be an assassin, I propose that we send her after her husband.”

            _“You have brought this up with the inner council?”_

“ As of now, I will only use it as a threat. But it would be a good test of the strength of her programming, as well as an opportunity to swat one of Talon’s most infuriating gnats with one blow.”

 “ _Gerard may be difficult to get at; by now he may think his wife is already dead, and Overwatch will undoubtedly raise suspicions.”_

“But the subject is, without a doubt, the easiest way to get close to Lacroix, especially considering past failures. Besides, if he thinks she’s dead and she turns out to be alive, then there is the distinct possibility he will overlook certain things in his relief. Don’t concern yourself with how we’ll make her do it; I’ll worry about that.”

_“And her physical alterations? I know your previous project outlines mentioned extreme changes, more than what you’ve done in the past.”_

“I don’t intend to alter her until after the test, but I’ve begun preliminary work so her body can take it. This is the major reason why it’s taking so long; if I failed to prepare her adequately, the modifications would kill her or make her utterly useless. And I trust the investors still want a symbol of Talon’s power as opposed to a broken plaything?”

“ _I don’t believe their interests have changed since we last spoke, Doctor,”_ the Omnic said, sounding mollified. “ _Thank you for the report. I know you’re a busy woman, so I’ll let you get back to work.”_

 “Thank you, Maximilien,” she responded pointedly. “I’ll send the report over. Don’t bother me unless you have to; I have too much to do.”

            She hung up, opened Project Widowmaker’s files, and initiated a conference call with her research team. She could imagine them scrambling to retrieve their communications devices as they all picked up within a second of one another; they knew when she called, it was serious.

            “We have work to do today. Have Lacroix brought to my lab, and see that preparations are made. You know what to do.”

*********************

I felt inclined to publish again. It's gonna get ugly though. 

Take the above comment however you want to, but just be warned that there's plenty more where this came from. And it's all just as terrible or worse than this. 

('My poor characters' has kinda become a running joke between me and my beta reader at this point, but I can't help myself. Moira is just too dang awesome and terrifying.)

Thanks for reading and hope you enjoyed this latest chapter. 

SheegothBait


	8. Poison Seeds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moira plants a fear in her subject's mind and begins to transform Amelie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the first of several that earn this work the E rating. Please bear in mind that although this non-con is nonsexual in nature, it is VERY bad touch.  
> *********************************  
> Warning: Non-con ahead. Please see above for additional info.  
> ***************************

            The overhead lights burned into Amelie’s eyes, but she didn’t want to close her eyes. Every time she did, she saw the same thing over and over; a large greened dot surrounded by an ocean of blue. She couldn’t get it out of her head; the feel of being crowded against the side of the helicopter by Reyes’ huge, blocky form, staring out the window as the base shrank beneath her, and finally coming to the horrible realization that the base was stationed on a small, remote island somewhere in the middle of an unidentified sea, the nearest landmass a distant smudge on the horizon. She wouldn’t find a boat, Reyes told her; if Talon had to leave, they took aircraft, which was much more efficient and quick. Swimming that far was an absurd fantasy; she’d get disoriented and drown before she’d made it even a fraction of the way. Talon had paid off or threatened just the right people so they would look the other way at any unexplained air or sea traffic coming from the island, O’Deorain told her, and to top it all, Talon had implanted a small but powerful tracker beneath her skin so they could find and retrieve her anywhere if she did, by some miracle, manage to escape.

            She blinked, and the shrinking green dot flashed before her eyes, distant as her fading hope someone would find her. She hadn’t given up; not entirely. She still clung to the hope someone from Overwatch would find her, but every hour that hope seemed to grow just a bit fainter, especially with the preparations the terrorist organization had made over the last six hours or so. When the guards (four of them this time) returned, she had fought them tooth and nail. She had known that whatever happened next couldn’t be good, and sure enough, despite her kicking and screaming, she’d wound up stretched out on a table in some part of the lab she hadn’t seen before, naked except for underwear and bra. She was alone for now, but she had a nagging suspicion that the scientists wouldn’t leave her by herself for too long and she’d soon find herself under O’Deorain’s scrutiny once more.

            She shuddered at the thought and tried the straps holding her for the hundredth time. She was so sick of the prodding and taunting and humiliation she’d been subjected to, and yet it seemed the worst was yet to come as Talon began their experiments in earnest. She closed her eyes, trying to picture Gerard’s face one last time. They’d surely toy with her memories, twist them into something they could use, and destroy the original beauty of Gerard’s imprint in the process. The quiet hiss of the door broke her thoughts and shattered Gerard’s tender smile.

            “Hello, Miss Lacroix. I do apologize at your current state of undress, but it’s necessary today that I have unimpeded access to you.” The geneticist gently stroked her goosebump-pocked arm. She stiffened, wanting to jerk away, but the restraints denied her such movement.  “That was quite the little misadventure you had yesterday, wasn’t it?”

            She scowled bitterly at the opposite wall, refusing to meet the Irish woman’s gaze, letting her silence speak for itself.

            “But here you are, nonetheless. What were you hoping to accomplish other than self-harm?”

            “You know,” she spat. “Why should I have to explain it?”

            “But I want to hear it from _you_ ,” the Talon agent said firmly. “What good did trying to escape do you?”

            She still refused to answer the insane woman.

            “Still difficult, hm?”

            “You’re testing me. Seeing if I’ll cooperate.”

            “Of course I am. And the response you just gave me indicates to me my next course of action.” The snap of latex finally drew Amelie’s attention, and she noticed the scientist had changed clothing, back to that stark white lab coat. The dancer’s gaze drifted, and she spotted a stack of surgical trays on a nearby counter that weren’t there before. She couldn’t see what was on them, but her skin prickled in cold sweat.

“You see, Talon’s not pleased with my progress or what happened yesterday. They say I need to continue forward, even though you’re not in an ideal psychological place for Talon’s purposes. So we’ll have to work on that as we go,” the doctor murmured, more to herself than Amelie.  

“You can’t force me to do what you want. You never will.”

“Then perhaps you fail to understand the lengths Talon will go to in order to have their perfect agent. I assure you that, should it come to that, I will be the least of your worries.”

“You can’t scare me. I know you don’t want me _damaged_ ,” Amelie retorted.

“Of course I don’t. But if I cannot show Talon progress, they will send in other people to…assist me. And as I have said before, other Talon members’ methods differ quite drastically from my own. Unfortunately, I’m running low on ideas to get quick results without killing you…” she mused, picking up a tablet and checking it. “Fortunately, I tend towards imaginative solutions.”  The doctor raised her unsettling gaze and put the device aside. “So let’s get started, shall we?”

Amelie watched with mounting dread as the scientist crossed to the surgical trays and picked up a syringe. She wished the insane doctor would just hurry up and knock her out and get it over with. Lying here helpless, waiting for the inevitable, was _killing_ her.

O’Deorain, it seemed, had other ideas.

Instead of going straight for the inside of Amelie’s arm, she circled, stopping next to the dancer’s upper legs. She put the syringe down and ran cold hands along the outside of Amelie’s thigh, her attention unnervingly focused on the dancer’s pale skin. Amelie shuddered.

 “Talon really did choose well from the potential subject pool,” the geneticist muttered to herself.

“Shut up,” Amelie snarled through gritted teeth. The woman’s habit of talking about her in the creepiest way possible was really freaking her out.

The doctor laughed. “You don’t like compliments?” she asked, dabbing a cold, wet wipe against Amelie’s leg.

“Not yours,” the French woman snapped.

            “Too modest.” Amelie flinched as O’Deorain bent over her, drawing her skin taut between two gloved fingers. The needle bit at Amelie’s leg, suddenly and hard, making the French woman wince.

            “Do try to relax. Tensing will only make this more unpleasant, and we have a long day ahead of us.” The Talon woman pulled the now-empty syringe from the dancer’s leg.

            “Is that all, then?” Amelie asked hoarsely, swallowing the rising tide of bile in her throat.

            The geneticist eyed her, smiling derisively. “ This part of the process is not painful enough or precise enough to risk sedation, and both Talon and I think you could stand to learn something from this experience.” She retrieved a second syringe. “You may start feeling ill; muscle aches, nausea, vertigo, chills. Don’t worry; I’ve documented all these reactions as perfectly ordinary, but I’d like you to tell me if you experience any symptoms all the same.”

            A painful lump blocked any response Amelie might have given, and she swallowed, her mind flicking through horror movies that had some kind of mutated monster. Something in the injection was going to affect her; that was a given. The question was _what_ would happen.

O’Deorian glanced at her and smirked. “You seem to have cotton in your ears for how well you listen. I’m not making major changes today; just priming you for the day I do. I’ll know in twenty-four hours whether or not I was successful.”

            “And what happens if you’re not? What if you fail?”

            “At this point, a failure will only result in more unpleasantness for you, so you’d better hope I succeed,” she mused, not sounding remotely worried at the prospect of failure.

            “Overwatch-“ Amelie started, half-choking on the word.

            “Overwatch doesn’t have the faintest clue where you are or who kidnapped you, as we have already discussed. They may have their suspicions, but even if they correctly guess it was Talon that took you, they still won’t find you. Not until we want them to.”

            “Y-you’re sending me back?” Amelie stuttered, her eyes widening in shock.

            “Perhaps. We’ll see where our research takes us and how you react to it.” Heterochromatic eyes caught her confused stare. “Trust me when I say that if we do decide to send you back, you’ll regret it.”

            Amelie glared at the Irish woman. “I’ll tell them everything. You know I will.”

            O’Deorain threw back her head and laughed. “Such spunk and optimism in the face of the odds! Is it any wonder I like your attitude?” She glanced at Amelie, her teeth bared in a thin, savage grin. “I do enjoy talking with you, but I think I’ve wasted enough time. As I have said, this will take a while. But I’ll leave you with this; what exactly could be our reasons for sending you back? Hm?” 

            Amelie jerked away as the scientist reached out and patted her cheek, but she couldn’t stop the question from turning over and over in her head. Fear of the answer swelled inside her mind, pushing the horror of her physical situation to the back of her thoughts.

_Who will they send me to kill, and how will they make me do it?_

_******************************_

_......_ Yikes. What did I just write?

 


	9. Fevered Minds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelie struggles to wake up from a nightmare. Moira studies the physical and mental effects of her most recent test on Amelie.

***************************

            “What can you tell me, Lacroix?” Moira murmured, carefully sliding the new tissue sample beneath her microscope. The sample, taken from Lacroix’s leg twelve hours after the tiresome procedure, would ideally show signs of the enhancements Moira had made, enhancements necessary for Lacroix to survive the transformation ahead of her. If it had worked correctly, it would be worth all of the subject’s insufferable begging and tears. Humans were finicky, idiosyncratic things, though; even with a genetic template, getting the subject’s body to restructure itself without killing the individual was…challenging, and unlike the others, Lacroix wasn’t exactly replaceable. Overwatch would undoubtedly increase their members’ security after Lacroix’s disappearance, so getting close enough to take another should Lacroix die…

            She snorted, silently berating herself for thinking like that. No; she’d run this test enough times to know Lacroix would survive it. All that remained was to see exactly how Lacroix would react to the treatment so she could compensate accordingly.

            She took a pipette from her test rack and carefully squeezed a few drops of the liquid onto the sample. Almost immediately, the sample intensified in color, going from a deep pink-burgundy to a neon-vibrant red.The muscle cells were uptaking oxygen at many times the usual rate. She waited for the color to fade; one, then five minutes passed, and the sample’s color slowly returned to its burgundy hue. She stopped the clock and glanced at the elapsed time; eight minutes, forty-nine seconds. Plenty of time for Lacroix to sprint out of trouble before the oxygen supplies in the cells were depleted.

            She smiled contentedly and stripped off her gloves, returning to her desk to make notes on the successful test. Adding some component to Lacroix’s body armor that could infuse a hyperoxygenating compound into the soon-to-be Talon soldier’s blood would only extend Lacroix’s capabilities further. Completing the transformation _did_ mean the French woman would require extra medical attention, but as long as the woman was capable of fighting, it didn’t much matter. Reyes already needed a lot of extra work; what was one more patient? She hardly thought the Talon medical staff were swamped with injury cases, after all…

            A notification popped up on her desktop. Time to check in on Lacroix again, make sure she wasn’t destabilizing. Her reaction to the nanobiotic treatment surely was hitting her hard by now, though the lack of contact from the team assigned to watch her indicated there was nothing wrong. Probably. Though Talon’s medical staff were far from buffoons, Moira wasn’t sure if she trusted them with Lacroix’s life if something happened. It was best to just check on the subject herself, as she had been doing every six hours or so.

            She stood, gathered her kit, and headed to Lacroix’s room. A nurse and a doctor stood on standby, monitoring the woman’s vitals with frowns etched across their faces. They looked up as she entered, and the color drained from both their faces. Moira raised an eyebrow.

            “Well?”

            The subject answered before they could, letting out a pained, delirious groan. Moira approached and appraised her as she pulled on a pair of sterile gloves. Lacroix’s forehead glistened with sweat, her skin flushed with fever, her eyes darting frantically beneath her eyelids in some fever-dream. She fidgeted beneath the sheets; had she not been restrained, she probably would have torn her IV out. She looked a mess. _Her_ mess. Imperfect as of yet, but successful, and all the more beautiful because of the success.

She glanced up at the nurse, still hovering.

            “Damp washcloth. Now.”

            The nurse scurried to the bathroom. Her gaze turned to the doctor.

 “Responsive?” She asked, knowing the doctor would understand.

            “In and out. We haven’t given her anything; we weren’t sure how it would react.”

            She dug a penlight out of her pocket and pried one of Lacroix’s eyes open, checking for dilation. Lacroix’s pupils were blown and reacted sluggishly to the bright light. One glance at the monitors told Moira almost everything; her heart rhythm was steady for now, but tachycardic, her O2 levels had dropped below normal, and her fever was pushing into the danger zone. They were dangerously close to losing control of this situation.

“How long?”

            “A few hours, Doctor. We weren’t sure whether to tell you just yet. It comes and goes, but it might be getting worse, we think.”

            “Clearly,” Moira muttered. She needed to get the situation under control, and fast. “I need ice, an antipyretic, and fentanyl. Go.”

            He bolted from the room as though she’d set his coattail on fire. Maximilien’s investors could say all they wanted about her slow results, but she definitely knew how to get her staff moving. Lacroix whimpered and squirmed, trapped in a fever-dream. _Could the dancer hear her?_ she thought as she pulled a fresh sample kit from her bag.

            “Lacroix?” She murmured, watching her subject’s reactions as her hands moved automatically over the woman’s arm. “Lacroix?”

*********************************

            Suffocating heat burned inside of her, her body throbbing like an abscessed tooth. She didn’t know how long she’d been sick; she’d lost all sense of time since she’d fallen ill. She didn’t remember what had caused it. During her brief moments of faint lucidity, she vaguely recognized her surroundings as a medical center of some sort, based on the colors and white-coated people watching over her. She had tried talking to them, asking them for help, but when she wasn’t incoherent, they would merely glance at her, then go back to their work, whatever they were doing. The one time she’d asked for water and someone had actually brought it to her, she’d thrown it right back up, and since then her sickness had only gotten worse, making her less and less aware of what was going on.

            Distantly, she heard someone speaking, and a response. A bright flash of light blinded her for a fraction of a second, and then the voices returned. One of them sounded vaguely familiar, but she didn’t have the energy to try to summon the memory of where she’d heard the voice before. She picked out a couple words- _tell you, getting worse, ice, fentanyl_. She tried to protest. Though the rest of them didn’t make sense out of context, she knew that last word. It was a drug of some kind that induced sleep. She didn’t know these people, and as sick as she felt, she didn’t want them forcing her to sleep. She didn’t have the faintest clue about what they would do when she was unconscious.

            She shifted in bed, terror welling up within her, blending with the furnace burning in her chest and making her stomach twist with nausea. The accented voice called her name, but she didn’t respond. A faint sting touched her arm, but she barely registered it, her head and heart pounding with fear and fever.

            *****************

            No response. Moira drew several samples of the dancer’s blood, studying the crimson liquid as it coated and filled each vial. It looked normal, but the proof was in the results.

            Quick footsteps heralded the doctor’s return as she labeled and stowed the last sample vial, and Moira turned to him briefly, requesting the vial of fentanyl, which he quickly handed over. She held a clean syringe to the light and measured a dose of the drug. Lacroix’s body needed a chance to recuperate, and the faster the woman recovered, the sooner she could move on with her work. She injected the drug, then picked up the damp rag the nurse had left on the nearby table and cleaned Lacroix’s face and neck. Lacroix pressed her face into the wet cloth and peered up at her through half-closed eyes. Moira froze and watched the reaction, fascinated.

            ***********************

            Something cold and damp and _wonderful_ touched her cheek, wiping away the sweat and heat and feeling of sickness from her face. The wet cloth moved over her cheeks, her forehead, her jaw and chin, her neck, leaving a refreshing coolness in its wake. She opened her eyes and looked up at her caretaker. The red hair seemed so familiar. She could only link that color to bad memories, but this seemed too real to be a fever-dream…

            The hand pulled away, leaving a ghost of comfort pressed into her skin, a feeling she savored as sleep took hold of her.

**************************

            Moira let her subject’s face rest in the cup of her hand for a long moment before withdrawing. The dancer’s head fell sideways, her cheek to the pillow, her eyes unfocused. Moira draped the cloth across the ill woman’s sweaty forehead, musing over the reaction as the woman slipped into drug-assisted slumber. Her neediness was probably just delirium-induced; the dancer was much tougher than the rest of the Talon staff gave her credit for.

She gave orders to the two attendants regarding Lacroix’s further treatment, picked up her bag, and left, still pondering her subject. Moira had known Lacroix had it in her; performing as a career took a certain fire, even if it was a dead-end job.  Lacroix was a delicate ribbon of lace wrapped around a core of steel. And in the end, that was precisely why the project would succeed.

Above all else, Project Widowmaker strove to create an obedient but still self-aware assassin, one that could and would think for themselves if stuck in a tight spot, or could be given orders and released upon the target without needing to be monitored every step of the way. Her previous subjects ranged on both extremes;  some gave up and went quietly, and the others fought her violently, screaming and cursing until the end. All data gathered from the tests was being funneled into Lacroix, and she seemed to have better responsivity with those who put up some resistance, but not so much that they essentially had to have their entire frontal lobe electrochemically rewired. Admittedly, Moira hadn’t studied human psychology as carefully as she had her precious genetics, but Lacroix was certainly proving to be her most interesting case. How curious it was that the French woman went from fighting her so adamantly to giving in to Moira’s logic, albeit reluctantly, one point of contention at a time. This told Moira that she was highly adaptable, able to think on her feet, but easy to influence with reason and suggestion. Perfect for Moira’s and Talon’s purposes.

Moira smiled to herself as she prepped Lacroix’s blood samples for analysis. On the floor of her mind, she postulated and made calculations, the possibilities spreading out before her like the wings of a pinned butterfly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit longer of a chapter after the previous short one.  
> I'll be honest; this wasn't one of my favorites, but I hope you still enjoyed it.  
> Thanks for sticking with this so far. Here's to more on their way!  
> (It might be a week or so, but they're coming.)


	10. Item of Curiosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sombra cracks Moira's files, looking for blackmail, and offers a trade to a desperate Amelie.

The lab door slid open, the only light little LEDs from the machines, reflected off the glassware containing unidentifiable mixtures of chemicals and DNA and the lab-coated figure asleep at the desk. Sombra stifled a smile as she stepped inside. Moira had worked herself to exhaustion in here, and though the sight of the redheaded woman slumped and slightly drooling on her desk amused Sombra, she knew she was dead if she woke O’Deorain. Moira would, at the very least, _never_ forgive Sombra for breaking into her lab and probably put a proper key-lock on the door to keep her out, and at the worst, take it upon herself to try to get rid of the hacker. Not that she could; Sombra was too valuable to Talon. But that wouldn’t stop Moira from trying.

            Sombra snickered as Moira let out a soft snore and withdrew a pilfered sedative patch from her pocket. It was best to just take the doctor out of the equation completely, given what Sombra was after.

            “Nighty-night, Doc,” she whispered, carefully pressing the patch against the doctor’s exposed neck. Moira twitched in her slumber, her face creasing at the touch, then relaxed as the drug went to work.

            “You’ll thank me later. You looked like you could use the rest anyway,” the hacker told the sleeping geneticist, then moved the chair, doctor and all, aside so she could get at the computer. The screen flashed its protest at her attempted use, but the specialized virus she forced into the system silenced the alerts and bypassed the password protection as though the firewalls were a mere digital curtain she had only to brush aside. She chuckled and dug in, data flickering past her gaze faster than she could read it. The algorithm she’d written into the virus sifted through the scrolling info, pulling relevant pieces from the database and copying them to Sombra’s drives. Sombra opened another window and began a search for Moira’s Widowmaker project. It would take more than a virus to pull these files; Moira’s research was on a whole other security plane than her personal files. Sombra wouldn’t have even bothered with it, except for the fact that she still needed a bargaining chip of some sort if she wanted to figure out Moira’s whole story. Specifically how she and Reyes were related.

            Ever since she’d begun to really watch their interactions, she’d noticed the curious tension between the spectral merc and the brilliant lunatic scientist. The amount anyone else could get away with as far as saying or doing without pissing the geneticist off paled in comparison to what Gabriel got away with. She’d heard him swear at the doc many times, an offense that often landed the hacker with less-than-perfectly healed injuries at the end of a mission and Moira’s firm insistence she would be fine despite whatever pain she complained of. From what Sombra could tell though, Reyes never got this kind of dismissal no matter how he acted. Perhaps it was some kind of condition only Reyes and Moira were privy to, but Sombra often fantasized about the two misfits locking themselves in Moira’s lab on a late night and turning off the cameras. Not that she could really visualize it, but it would make for one _hell_ of a piece of blackmail.

 She snickered. If she could just find evidence...  

            She located the file and began the process of copying that as well, tapping her fingers irritably against the desk as the documents copied, one byte at a time, to her drive. She glanced at the doctor; still sound asleep, thanks to the drugs, and still breathing.  Sombra shrugged and put the Irish woman’s health out of her head. She wasn’t being paid to worry about the scientist’s health. The doc would most likely be perfectly fine when she woke up, if maybe a little groggy. Sombra was more concerned about the doc figuring out what she’d done; Moira wasn’t exactly a dull bulb after all. But Sombra hadn’t exactly left much of anything to make O’Deorain suspicious; no reason to dust for fingerprints or question Sombra about where she’d been, especially if Moira had remembered falling asleep at her desk.

            The computer chimed, indicating the success of the replication. Sombra straightened and began removing the evidence of the hack, cleaning up the digital footprints she’d left. With a final quick tap of the keys, she scrubbed the last of her virus, the then picked a tissue from the box on Moira’s desk and peeled the patch off the scientist’s neck. She deserved to be caught if she wiped the drives of her intrusion but forgot such a minor physical detail. She nudged Moira back into place, resisted the gnawing temptation to scribble a mustache onto the Irishwoman’s pale face, and left the office, closing the door behind her.

            She had a prisoner to talk to.

**************************************

            Amelie stared at her fingers, tracing the lines on her palms. She’d passed well beyond bored what felt like a long, long time ago, and the quiet was beginning to stick in her craw. Not that she minded not having company; she’d rather be alone than have the Talon soldiers watching her every move or the scientists peering and prodding and _poking_ , but the walls of her cell seemed to be closing in on her, choking her. She wondered bleakly if this was all part of the conditioning and torture she’d had to endure and whether they’d come in and break her long solitude out of concern over her mental health. Or maybe very little time had passed, and her sense of time was as stretched and deformed as a melted candle. The round of injections O’Deorain had subjected her to and the resultant fever had completely obliterated what little sense of day and night she still had. The guards hadn’t come to get her in quite some time, which frightened her.

            The last time they’d gone this quiet, they’d taken her to the geneticist’s operating room when they finally turned up.

            She shivered and rubbed at her arms. She could still feel the sharp pinpricks from where the evil woman had jabbed her again and again, all over; her legs and arms, thighs and shoulders, chest, back, and abdomen. _Unpleasant_ put it mildly; some of the injections had been downright painful, and the sickness that followed was worse yet than the entire awful, humiliating procedure. Her fever had swelled and faded cyclically, but the muscle aches hadn’t vanished. Even now her body still throbbed with pain, and she wondered exactly what the Talon scientist had done to her. She supposed she’d never find out, seeing as her captors weren’t particularly in the habit of telling her what was going on.

            The door opened suddenly, making her start and look up. A young woman clothed in varying shades of purple strolled in. She got to her feet and backed away, watching the woman.

            “Hola, chica,” the stranger said, grinning at Amelie with the same superiority-loaded expression that the Irishwoman wore. Amelie felt rage rise inside her; she _knew_ this woman, the very same individual that had drugged and kidnapped her and brought her here in the first place. Only this time she was wearing some sort of high-tech jumpsuit and coat instead of a hoodie and carrying a compact submachine gun.

            “What do you want?” Amelie asked, her voice hoarse.

            “Just a little conversation is all.” Her chocolate-brown eyes flicked around the cell, and she scoffed. “Figures they don’t have any place for us to sit and talk.” She plunked herself down at the foot of Amelie’s cot. The dancer stared. Who _was_ this woman?

            “Oh, relax,” the (Mexican, maybe?) woman said. “I don’t bite.” She gestured with her gun. “I’ll only use this if you cause me problems. But you won’t, will you?” She smirked at Amelie. “No one wants to get shot, after all.”

            Amelie scowled at her. “If you have something to say, say it.”

            “Aw, don’t be like that. I know you don’t trust me because of that thing at the bar, but that was just a job. No hard feelings.” The woman twirled a lavender-tipped lock of hair around her finger. “I came to make a deal with you; something that I’m interested in for something you’re going to desperately want.”

            “And why would I want what you’ve got?” Amelie snapped.

            The woman laughed. “Because I’ve been doing a little research.” She opened her free hand, and a translucent cube appeared in her palm. “This is the file we have on you.”

            Amelie glanced to the cameras.

            “Don’t worry. They don’t see anything besides you moping in here,” the woman assured her.

            Her gaze turned back to the cube. “What’s in the file?” she asked suspiciously.

            The hacker flicked a finger and the cube exploded into several different holograms. Amelie recognized a few of the images; a picture of her husband, Castle Guillard, a screenshot of what looked like the Widowmaker project file. With another twitch of her fingers, the Mexican woman enlarged the image, the other pictures blinking out of existence. Sure enough, Amelie recognized her picture and the DNA molecule from the geneticist’s computer. A third flick of her hand, and the file fragmented again, filling the hacker’s palm with a dozen different official-looking documents, a +139 hovering in the corner of the lowest right-handed file, indicating how much was hidden.

            “This file contains all the doc’s medical information on you; everything she did and how she did it, every last detail and measurement she took. If you can answer my questions, I’ll see this file gets to Overwatch. If you’re interested in undoing what Doc did to you, that is.” The light from the holograms reflected off her dark eyes, making them glitter. “So what do you think?”

            Amelie stared at the holograms, wishing desperately she could just will them into non-existence.

            “Come on. I know you want them. Just say so,” the hacker purred. “Overwatch’s doc is almost as good as Moira. I’m sure she could figure out these files.”

            Amelie met the woman’s eyes. “What do you want for that?”

            She blew a raspberry and brandished a long-nailed hand carelessly. “I’m practically _giving_ this stuff away. All you gotta do is answer a few questions.”

            The dancer scowled and crossed her arms. The hacker’s attitude was starting to grate on her already raw nerves. “Well? What do you want to know?”

            “So your husband worked for Blackwatch, right? He knew everybody there.”

            “Yes. What about it? Do you want a list of their names?”

            The woman snorted. “Please. I knew _that_ ages ago.” She crossed her arms and legs. “I’m curious about any co-worker romances.”

            Amelie stared at the hacker, utterly confused. Why would she want to know _that?_ Was this a test of some sort? “N-no…” She answered tentatively, racking her brain for any conversation she might have had with Gerard suggesting this.

            “Really? No notes? No secret meet-ups? No unusual amount of time spent outside of the base by any of the members?”

            “No,” the dancer said, watching the other woman’s smile fade with every word she spoke. “But there was that call…”she said hastily, remembering a conversation she’d overheard.

            “About?”

            “I-I don’t remember exactly, but Gerard was talking about medical records and the fact ‘he’ spends too much time in ‘her’ lab.” Amelie considered the details in her own head. There was only one ‘she’ that she knew of in Blackwatch, and the dancer couldn’t _possibly_ see the woman who had caused her so much torment in any sort of relationship with _anybody._ Unless this Talon agent knew something she didn’t?

            The hacker tilted her partially-shaved head, her eyes glimmering in interest. “Anything else?”

            “I don’t know; I saw them at parties sometimes. But there was never much of anything between any of the members.”

            “You didn’t see the doc or Gabe together at all?”

            Amelie thought for a long moment, racking her brains. ‘Gabe’ must be Gabriel Reyes, the brooding, black-haired Blackwatch member who Gerard had often gone out to drinks with. She didn’t recall a single moment, during the few parties she’d seen both O’Deorain and Reyes at, where he seemed to be enjoying himself in her presence.  “They sometimes stepped away from the events together and talked to each other. She’d put an arm around his shoulder sometimes and lean in close to talk to him.”

            “And he liked spending time with her?”

            The dancer frowned. “He was never happy around her. I don’t _know_ what they said to each other,” she added, her voice grating with frustration, knowing that the hacker probably wanted some proof of romantic involvement that she just couldn’t produce. “Sorry, but I don’t know.”

            The Mexican woman’s face fell, her smile replaced by a dismissive frown. Her attention drifted away from Amelie, her finger twining in her hair again. “Too bad.” She stood up and turned towards the door.

            The dancer grabbed her arm. “We had a deal…”

            “Sorry, chica,” she said, totally avoiding Amelie’s gaze. “No deal.”

            “You’re going back on your word?!” Amelie shouted. A second later she stepped back, the blunt nose of the hacker’s weapon in her face.

            “I’m not entirely happy with what you gave me. So yeah, no deal.”

            “But you-“

The Talon agent cut across her protest. “In case you haven’t noticed, I don’t work for you. I shouldn’t be here anyway, but I figured I might try.” She shrugged. “Not everything pans out.”

            “You can’t leave me here!”

            The hacker rolled her dark eyes. “What, you seriously thought I was going to spring you? I said I’d give one of your hero friends the data _if_ you could answer my questions. You couldn’t, as I guessed, and there’s no _way_ I’d be stupid enough to try to get you out of here. The doc’s too careful to allow someone to just run away with one of her projects.”

            “Don’t-“

            “What, do this? I’m Talon, remember? Hel- _loooo_. I’m not going to openly sabotage Talon’s work. It’s you or me.” A nasty smile tugged at the corner of her mouth for a moment, then disappeared. “No hard feelings. Besides, I think the doc will let you see your husband soon.”

            A flash of blue light, and the woman was gone, leaving Amelie staring at the spot where she’d vanished. Curses flew from the dancer’s lips, and tears gathered at the corners of her eyes, leaving hot trails down her face. She wiped at her cheeks furiously as the Talon agent’s words sunk in, and terror replaced her helpless fury.

            _Mon Dieu._

Her husband.

            They were going to send her after her husband.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A open letter from author to readers. Big Feelings ahead!  
> *********  
> Hi guys. I hope you enjoyed this latest chapter.  
> I want to thank you all again for reading this. Your views make my little corner of the world go round, in more ways than one.  
> I'll honest with you guys; I'm a bit of a procrastinator. Actually a lot of a procrastinator. Sometimes it's because I'm lazy, and other times I just don't have the confidence to confront my day-to-day work. 
> 
> Fanfiction writing is something I fall back on because I enjoy it and I know I'm at least fair at writing. Furthermore, it's something I know you guys can enjoy. My fan fictions have gotten me through a lot of mental sticky spots in my life, and seeing interest and positive attention directed towards them, especially in light of their dark content, gives me some much-needed positive energy.  
> So thank you, thank you, THANK YOU to those who have left kudos, and that sentiment is doubled for those who have left kind comments.  
> On days it feels like this is all I have to cling to, even such a small gesture means so much.  
> <3  
> SheegothBait  
> *********************  
> Okay, I got my sappiness out of the way now.  
> The pre-script Big Feelings is a reference to shiplizard's series Do You Want To Have A Harvest, a surprisingly effective and very well-written series of short crossovers between Venom and Overwatch, focused around Gabriel Reyes. I highly recommend giving it a read.  
> Thanks again, and I hope to see you next chapter!


	11. Chrysalis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The whole truth is revealed to Amelie, but not for long, and the seemingly impossible occurs.
> 
> Warnings for bad touch ahead. Please heed them. Thank you.  
> *************************

            Moira watched in concerned curiosity as Lacroix screamed and wailed, thrashing fruitlessly against the restraints. Never before had the dancer fought so very hard, and it was a little alarming. She was tempted to tell her aides to sedate the young woman; at this rate, she was concerned about the subject hurting herself. But it didn’t much matter, she supposed. Lacroix would have to be put under soon anyway, and she preferred to have a chance to talk with the subject before that happened.

            Talon had given the all-clear: Lacroix’s first target and the true test of her programming was her husband. If she could kill someone she loved without her programming breaking, it wouldn’t matter how many people Lacroix killed after the fact. Talon would have their perfect assassin, or Lacroix would be captured and broken trying to fulfill what Talon had stamped into her brain. Moira had done what she could to make sure Lacroix would be a success, and already the dancer was showing favorable signs. When the trigger was played in her cell at night and during her sessions, she went rigid and mumbled under her breath. Polysomnographies of her brain waves during this period revealed that her mind was priming itself to defend itself at any cost, like a soldier trapped in a foxhole being pounded by shells. Furthermore, during this period, she was extremely susceptible to suggestion.

            All it would take would be one simple phone call, the right prompts, and the deed would be done. Then Lacroix would be hers.

            Moira smiled at the thought. _Perfect._  She had already planned Lacroix’s physical alterations, every gene change mapped and catalogued. Watching the dancer’s reaction to the changes would be enthralling, and studying her afterwards would be equally as interesting. Talon HQ was starting to become quite the menagerie of genetically altered human beings, as some of the staff liked to joke nervously. The new world Akande saw in the near future began with her work. And proving that her work _could_ work.

            She stood, stretched, and put her lab coat on. On camera, Lacroix squirmed against the restraints, her cheeks shiny with tears, but at least she’d stopped screaming and banging her head. Maybe she’d just gotten tired. Not surprising; she’d been carrying on like that for well over half an hour, and Moira had no intention of trying to reason with an out-of-control subject. It was impossible to get them to listen when she could barely hear _herself_ think. She washed her hands at the sink, as was protocol, and stepped into the operating room where Lacroix lay on the table, wide awake and clearly terrified, surrounded by equipment that was all set up, waiting for someone to connect it.

            She addressed the subject gently and watched the dancer strain to get a look at her. Even from here, she could tell the woman’s pupils were blown with fear. Expected, considering the situation. But the psychosomatic effects of the stress could have dangerous effects on the procedure and Lacroix’s mental condition in the long run. She fingered the syringe in her pocket, but decided against it. She wanted the subject fully aware so the woman would understand. She owed the dancer that much, at least.

*************

            She should have expected it.

            The hacker had told her this was coming. She’d woken up every day after their talk dreading this moment.

            And still they had managed to blindside her with it.

            She knew something was amiss when they hadn’t brought her breakfast. Then a four-man squad of three guards and a doctor had come in and drawn her blood. By then, she’d caught on and did her best to fight them. By the end of it, one of the guards had a scratched arm and another a bloody nose.

            She wished she’d been able to do more damage.

            They hadn’t given her any drugs when they came back, as she thought they might for causing problems. She’d wondered if this was to be another session where O’Deorain wanted her awake, and she tried to fathom what she was being punished for this time. Perhaps they’d found out about the hacker’s visit. She had fought like a possessed animal when they came to take her. Again, she managed to inflict minor injuries, and again her efforts didn’t seem to matter.

            Again she’d found herself strapped to the operating table, unable to move and left alone to stew.

            This time she’d refused to lay quietly and think, throwing her body against the restraints in the desperate hope of finding some play, any play, in them. Her wrists were raw and sore from where she’d twisted, compressing bones and cartilage to near-breaking point in the faintest shadow of a prayer of getting one hand free.

            She’d only wound up exhausted and sweaty despite the cold.

            “Hello, Miss Lacroix.”

            Amelie froze, her whole body tensing at the sound of a horribly familiar voice. She looked up, straining her neck to get even the barest glimpse of the dagger-thin woman in charge of her torment. The redhead was fingering something in her pocket, but seemed to decide against it and withdrew her empty hand.

            “How are you feeling?”

            A cascade of thoughts and emotions washed over at the geneticist’s seemingly innocent query; rage, misery, humiliation, and above all, paralyzing fear. Shouldn’t Overwatch have found her by now? What had she ever done to deserve all this?   _What was going to happen to her?_

            She choked on a breath, tears beading at the corners of her eyes, and quickly looked away from the Talon woman.

            “There’s no shame in crying, dear.” A hand brushed her cheek, wiping away her tears. “I understand why you might be afraid. Ask yourself; is it because you do not comprehend Talon’s vision, or because you are genuinely frightened of it?”

            “You’re going to send me after-“ she sucked in a breath, trying to steady her quavering voice “-m-my husband. How am I _supposed_ to feel?”

            Heterochromatic eyes fixed on her face. “Oh? And just who told you that?”

            Amelie recoiled. As unpleasant as the hacker had been, the woman hadn’t even come close to competing with the Irishwoman for vileness, and even thinking of helping the scientist search for the information leak made her want to vomit. “Your ‘friends’ aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.” Amelie retorted.

            The scientist glanced at her, a self-satisfied smirk curling her lips “And what kind of melodies has our little purple songbird been singing?”

            Amelie gaped at her. The hacker had _said_ that the surveillance had been knocked offline. Had she lied?

“I’ll be honest with you, Miss Lacroix; it wasn’t difficult to guess who you were talking about. Sombra has always been shifty about her loyalties. She’s quick to make deals and she’s quick to break them. Talon never stops her because her interests so frequently align with Talon’s interests.”

            “She stole your research and offered to give it to Overwatch if I could tell her what she wanted to know. Is _that_ what Talon wants?”

            O’Deorain laughed. “Ah, and that proves that innate intelligence means nothing without proper training. Sombra is not a geneticist, and neither is Dr. Ziegler. You’d have to find a very talented individual with specialized skills. She may have thought Overwatch could use the information, but I still won’t hold it against her. It’s not my business who she sides with, as long as it doesn’t interfere directly with my research.” Her eyes glittered, her smile softening into an expression that would have looked kind on any face but hers. “I would take what she says with a grain or two of salt, dear. She’s not very trustworthy even at the best of times.”

            “And you _are?_ ”

            The woman’s sharklike grin returned as she picked up some wires connecting to one of the machines. “Compared to Sombra, I am _extremely_ trustworthy. I am not fond of lies and subterfuge; it confuses the truth and consequently makes the lying individual unbelievable. Which, as I’m sure you can imagine, is not a good relationship for a scientist to have with his or her subjects, especially if they’ve chosen to place their lives in my hands.”

            “Don’t see how that’s stopped you,” Amelie retorted, grimacing and flinching away as the doctor’s hands slipped beneath her shirt, frigid fingers pressing adhesive discs onto her skin, carefully avoiding her breasts.

            “Have I lied to you?” O’Deorain turned and flipped on the machine. A steady, rapid beeping filled the air.

            “Is that how you justify all this?” Amelie gestured with a bound hand at the machinery around her. Angry tears blurred the overhead lighting and O’Deorain’s carefully-groomed mop of red hair. “You apparently haven’t _lied_ to me, so it’s fine?”

            The Irishwoman clucked her tongue. “Justification of my actions is hardly the point of my argument. My point is that your life is not in danger here.”

            “But my _husband’s_ is! Or do you just not care about that?” The dancer shouted. Her voice reverberated off the sterile white walls, her unshed tears finally falling.

            The doctor smiled as she tied a piece of rubber tubing around Amelie’s bicep. “You would do well to remember not to trust Sombra’s rumors, especially since you seem to have gotten on her bad side already. And no, I do not care what relationship you have to whoever Talon sends you after. Other than the effect it has on you, that individual is utterly irrelevant to my work.”

            “I _know_ you’re going to send me after my husband! Who else would you kill? He’s the biggest threat to you, right?” Amelie pressed.

             “What a clever thing you are to figure it out. Pity I’ll have to get rid of that revelation; it will interfere with your mission otherwise.” She swabbed Amelie’s inner arm, where the veins stood out darkly against pale skin.

             Amelie stared at her. How on _earth_ had humanity made a creature as heartless as this woman? “You can’t make me do it.” The words hissed from between the dancer’s clenched teeth, her glare boring into the scientist’s back. If she could only kill the woman with a look…

The geneticist continued to avoid her gaze, untangling clear tubing from another machine. “I’ve already discussed this with you. Fighting events you have no control over will only wind up causing you more pain. Then again, I did get the impression you had more sense than that. Perhaps I was wrong.”

The dancer looked away, choking back a sob of desperation as the Talon doctor readied a hypodermic needle. “You’re insane.”

“Call me whatever names you want. I’ve heard it all before. Such sentiments are just products of terrified, ignorant, and confused minds. Once you understand, though, you’ll see my work in another light.”

The needle stung sharply as it burrowed through Amelie’s skin, lodging somewhere in a vein. The dancer winced and closed her eyes, trying to hold back tears as the scientist’s cold fingers grazed her skin, securing the IV in place and loosening the tourniquet.

“I know this is unpleasant, Miss Lacroix, but it will be over soon.” The woman had softened her voice, as though she was speaking to a child. Amelie turned her head, fixing the ersatz doctor with the most savage glare she could muster, and spat at the redhead, missing completely due to the awkward angle. O’Deorain chuckled.

“You _are_ a feisty thing. But the sedative in your IV will take the edge off you.”

Amelie swallowed and glanced at the IV pump, and the traitorous monitor she was hooked to chirped in distress as her heart rate spiked. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the geneticist’s smirk as she adjusted the IV flow.

“The medication will take some minutes to reach proper potency due to its diluted nature. In the meantime, I suggest you ask me any other questions you might have, while you’re still conscious enough to understand the answers.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” the dancer snarled, fighting the urge to shiver at the feeling of the drug-laced saline snaking its way through her veins.

The Irishwoman stepped closer, deliberately making an attempt to meet her gaze. “No? Not even the slightest bit curious?”

“ _Va te faire enculer,”_ Amelie retorted.

“That does seem to be a favorite insult of yours, doesn’t it?”

“How did Blackwatch _ever_ come to hire you without realizing what a _monster_ you were?” The dancer asked, the words bitter on her tongue, which was becoming heavier by the second.

“Oh, they knew. They simply chose to ignore it.” The doctor leaned closer. “Your husband is just as fanatical in his desire to crush Talon as Talon’s leader is to elevate humanity by any means necessary.”

“He is _not_.”

Again O’Deorain laughed. “I think I knew his true intentions better than you ever will. There was a reason he was given Blackwatch to command, and it wasn’t just because of his intelligence.”

_“Chienne,”_ Amelie spat thickly. If she had been free, she would have made every attempt to break the red-haired bitch’s sharp, perfect nose, if her heavy limbs would have cooperated with her.

As always, the only reaction the curse drew from the scientist was a smile. “You’re slurring. You must be exhausted.” She reached up and tapped her earpiece. “Dr. Wieber will be taking over from here, but I’ll still be around to monitor things. Right now you’re one of two human beings on the planet that are worth their weight in gold to me, and I’ll keep as close an eye on you as I can.”

Her voice echoed, as though she spoke from the top of a well. The woman’s long fingers cupped her cheeks in an almost motherly gesture, running her thumbs down either side of Amelie’s face. The dancer barely felt the touch; she struggled to keep her eyes open.

“Forget this whole thing. Go home, enjoy the last few weeks of normality you have left.”

She barely heard the last words the doctor spoke, but they echoed hauntingly inside her head as she slipped into unconsciousness.

_“I’ll see you again soon enough.”_

**********************

The clamoring of the phone roused Gerard from sleep. He groaned and grabbed for it, accidentally knocking the book he’d been reading off the side-table with a jarring _thunk_. He mumbled a curse and grabbed the phone, jabbing the end call button. He put the infernal device down, slipped out of bed, and picked up his book, brushing a thumb over the cover. In the half-light of the obscured full moon, he could make out the title: _The Cycle of Grief_. It had been a gift from Dr. Ziegler to help him try to recover, but he hadn’t gotten far into it, mostly because every time he picked it up…

A tear spattered onto his hand. He wiped it away, put the book back, and pulled back the covers, intending to try for some much-needed sleep, probably by now well out of his reach.

The phone rang again. He snatched it up, glanced at the caller ID, and barely managed not to swear at the other person as he picked up.

“What?”

Dr. Ziegler’s voice responded, her words breathless and hurried. “ _Gerard, we found Amelie.”_

He froze. “You what?”

“ _We found Amelie. Meet us at Gibraltar, and I’ll explain then. We’ll be there in a few hours.”_

********************************


	12. Interlude: The Widowmaker Notes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You keep asking, Maximilien, so I hope this satisfies your curiosity until Lacroix is retrieved.

**From:** M.O (CMA)

 

**To:** A. Ogundimu, S. Korpal, A. Vialli, Maximilien (+ 4 others)

 

**Re:** The Widowmaker Project files: Modification Records

 

 

_The following document is considered top-secret information. Unauthorized reading, reproduction, or use of these documents may result in an individual’s termination._

            **Subject name:** Amelie Lacroix

           

            **Age:** 29

           

            **Height:** 5’6”

           

            **Physical status** : The subject’s body is uniquely well-suited to genetic modification. She has performed as a dancer for some years in the past, giving her an athletic build. Her musculoskeletal structure is extremely dense for her size, and she has shown a penchant for agility and feats of strength belying her size. Her ankles and feet show evidence of repetitive motion and stress injuries.

 

**Mental status:** The subject is perceptive and retentive of information. She handles stress by action rather than inaction and does not freeze when placed in a dangerous situation. She appears receptive of initial conditioning efforts and responsive to prompts.

She does not present with any mental problems at this time.

 

            **Physiological modifications**

**Cardiovascular:** The subject’s heart rate will be lowered via ablation of the sinoatrial node and modification of the medulla oblongota. This may disrupt the oxygen supply to the epidermis and extremeties; to combat this, the subject’s intramuscular myoglobin content will be greatly increased to supply the body with the oxygen it needs during combat.

            **Opthalmic:** The sympathetic and parasympathetic nerves of the circular and radial muscles of the iris will be boosted in conductivity, allowing for quicker reactions in focusing on close and distant objects. Pain threshold in the cornea may decrease as a result. Rod cells will produce more rhodopsin, leading to a marked increase in dark/light sensitivity, and the optic nerve will also be sensitized to impulses, allowing the subject to perceive her surroundings better. The subject’s body must be able to process these changes correctly, as poor reaction may lead to increased recovery times instead of decreased recovery times. This may require a splice from another species; _Haliaeetus leucocephalus_ is a preferred donor template.

 

            **Neurological:** The subject already shows great natural agility and must be quick in order to slip into buildings undetected and evade capture. This can be accomplished by boosting sensitivity to motor impulses and decreasing the recovery time between impulses. Stress stimuli will act as triggers for increased acetylcholine production and release into the synaptic clefts of muscle cells, priming the subject for rapid response during missions.  See above category for sensory reflexes.

 

**Musculoskeletal:** To balance neurological modifications, release of acetylcholinesterase will also be boosted, leading to faster muscular recovery time. Muscular fibers will be compressed, the cells themselves lengthened and flattened, so that they contract more strongly. Fascia , tendon fibers, and osteocytes will also receive similar treatment so they may withstand the tension and strength of muscular contractions. Osteoblast production will also be increased to balance out any osteological damage that may be caused by the modified muscle tissue.

 

**Psychological changes**

            Pavlovian conditioning has already been applied to the subject and will continue. The anterior and inferior portions of her prefrontal lobes, as well as the insula, will undergo extensive alteration to decrease the subject’s emotional responses and attachments, with the only increase in this area being to her reward centers. Neurochemical rerouting may need to be applied to achieve this effect. Further conditioning will need to be applied so that the subject responds properly to authority figures and commands.

            The subject is to otherwise be left fairly intact to minimize psychological damage and disorientation.

 

****************************

**A/N:** Using my APHYS textbook, here we have as complete a breakdown of Widowmaker's physiology as I can manage. I assure my readers it's as medically accurate as possible, given my limited knowledge in the field of human biology and biochemistry. 

I've been wanting to do a medically-accurate breakdown of the Widowmaker for quite some time, and this satisfies that particular itch. I hope you enjoyed it. Video game science rooted in real-world science. Among Overwatch's bunk science, this one actually works. 

 


	13. Variable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angela finds something disturbing in Amelie's medical records that raises her suspicions. Talon demands results.  
> *******************

“ _O’Deorain. How goes the project?”_

Moira sat around a conference table with the head psychologist, neurologist, and surgeon. She was supposed to be updating Vialli and Maximilien on progress, but she wasn’t sure what they intended to get from this call; the subject had been released after her final trial runs, and they could exactly wrangle her in again without raising Overwatch’s suspicions so high that they wouldn’t be able to enact the plan or retrieve the asset.

“Well enough, though I can’t say there’s much new information to report. Overwatch has found Lacroix and returned her to base.”

“ _They have no suspicions?”_

“Why don’t you ask them yourself, Vialli? I’m sure if they don’t, _that_ won’t raise any red flags.”

_“How has the subject taken the conditioning?”_ Maximilien asked, his metal fingers resting thoughtfully against a nonexistent beard.

“Very well. In the last few weeks, she has achieved perfect scoring on all tests,” the neurologist said.

“ _Good. It sounds like she will perform well for us.”_

“I’m sure she will.”

Moira ground her teeth at the positive almost-small-talk. This was just a waste of time; her part in this project would come in earnest after all this was said and done. She should be working, not sitting around chatting. Not if Talon wanted any proper results. Indoctrination and conditioning could only do so much; it was Moira’s work that would make Lacroix truly special. And she was frittering it away in meetings.

“ _How was she tested?”_

“Simulations, live targets, firing ranges. Thoroughly, I assure you,” Wieber responded confidently.

_“And how goes your modifications, Doctor?”_ Vialli asked, staring expectantly at Moira.

 “Well enough, considering I don’t actually have the subject on hand. I would remind you, though, that my work is not yet finished, and request dismissal so I can continue refinement.”

Vialli frowned slightly. “ _One more thing before you go, Doctor. I want to know about her injuries.”_

“There may be some trace psychoactive chemicals left in her blood. Not enough to cause any effects, but they may be detected on a test,” Wieber replied.

“There will be some minor evidence if they take X-rays,” the surgeon added. “Bone takes a long time to heal. The soft tissue damage is gone, though. Out of respect for the good doctor here,” he nodded at Moira, “I haven’t tried to replicate the nanobiotics she uses, but if we could patent them, we could make a killing.”

Vialli tilted his head, curious. _“Her injuries were healed completely otherwise?”_

“Yes. She was examined a final time to check for residual damage, cleaned up, and relocated to a spot Overwtach could find her less than forty-eight hours ago.”

“ _And you’re sure she’ll perform?”_

Moira rolled her eyes. Always doubting, Vialli was. Always digging for certainty, for a guarantee that he could then slap on whatever advancements came out of the Talon labs, so that he could then turn around and sell it with his oily salesman grin.  “Do you trust the people sitting around this table or not, Vialli? We wouldn’t have released her if we weren’t certain she would function as needed. She’ll fulfill her mission.”

“ _I hope so, Doctor. I look forward to your update. Two weeks from now?”_

“Two weeks from now,” she confirmed drily.

“ _Very well. Adjourned.”_

Moira got up, her mouth set in a stiff line. _Oh, she’ll perform, you sleazebag. And I have a feeling when Ogundimu gets wind of your money-grubbing, you’ll be next on his hit-list._

 ********************************************

            “Where is she, Ziegler?”

            Angela looked up, alarmed at his whirlwind entry, and opened her mouth to speak, but Gerard spotted the closed curtains around one of the beds first and made a beeline for them, brushing past McCree without a word. Jesse caught his shoulder, and Gerard threw the cowboy’s hand off, turning to glare at the man.

            “You can’t.” Jesse said flatly.

            “And why shouldn’t I be able to see my wife?” Gerard snapped.

            “Because there are factors in this situation not even I understand, Gerard,” Angela said sharply. “We don’t know what’s been done to her; she cleared all the biological-agent screenings, but we haven’t had time for more tests.”

            “Tests?” He stopped himself before he asked something stupid. Amelie had been in Talon’s clutches for two and a half months. Of _course_ Angela would test to make sure they weren’t bringing a biological landmine onto the base. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine, you had to run tests. Just let me see her. Please.”

            “Jesse will also stay. Please don’t try to wake her; she’s sedated right now and I would like to keep it that way until we get further results.” She strode to the curtain.

            “ _Why_ , Angela?” Gerard pressed. “What’s wrong with her?”

            “Apparently nothing,” Angela said, her voice a murmur. “That’s what worries me.” She swept the curtain aside, and Gerard followed, taking only one step inside before he was arrested by the sight before him.

            “Oh, _Amelie_ ,” he murmured, tears stinging his eyes. She looked so very pale and so very still, her hair spread in a dark halo behind her soft, serene face. Beneath the blanket, her chest rose and fell slowly and steadily, the only indication she was still alive. Wires and tubes snaked from beneath the sheets, monitoring his wife’s vital signs and delivering fluids and drugs. He approached the bed and found her delicate arm, his hand resting on top of the sheets as he stroked her, willing for her to wake.

            “We’re still not sure what the exact circumstances of her recovery were. She seemed extremely confused and disoriented when she was brought in, and she became aggressive and panicked when the team that found her attempted to examine her. They made the call to sedate her, and when I heard, I decided to keep her asleep. We need answers before we wake her up as to what happened while she was missing and why now, of all times, Talon decided to return her.” Angela cast a long, worried glance at the sleeping woman. “I just haven’t found any evidence to support their tampering yet. There has to be _something.._.” She mused, her faced creased in preoccupation.

            “Don’t say that,” Gerard bit out, glaring at Angela.

            “Meanin’ no offense, _jefe_ , but I saw the mess your missus left behind. It weren’t pretty. Don’t know if she could do that before, but she hurt some people real bad, and Overwatch agents ain’t exactly slouches when it comes to self-defense,” Jesse added.

            “She’s had some self-defense classes. Besides, if she really was as scared as you say she was, it was probably just an accident. She wouldn’t hurt anyone on purpose,” Gerard countered.

            “Regardless,” Angela murmured, her attention focused on the young woman, “we still don’t know what happened to her. She looks unharmed, but they’ve obviously been doing _something_. Her hair is neatly trimmed, her nails are cleanly cut, she’s obviously had access to hygiene facilities, and she’s only lost a few pounds. Someone was taking great care to ensure she remained healthy, despite her long absence.” Angela grimaced. “Or make it look like nothing ever happened.”

            “But _why?_ ”

            “I don’t _know_. That’s what’s bothering me.” Angela blew out a frustrated sigh, then dug out her phone, which had begun to buzz softly in her pocket. She picked up the call, listened for half a minute, went three shades paler, and hung up.

            “Gerard, my office, please,” she murmured as she stood up. “Jesse, please keep an eye on Mrs. Lacroix, if you would, and let me know if she wakes. Remember to be gentle with her, please.”

            “What’s wrong?” He asked, standing and following her.

            “I…” She faltered. “It would be best if I showed you.”  
            Gerard felt worry stir inside him, troubled by Angela’s obvious agitation, but didn’t press any questions until she had entered her office and shut the door.

            “What’s wrong?” he repeated, clenching his hands.

            “I-The-“ she sputtered, running her hands through her hair and shifting on the spot as though someone had lined her shirt with live ants. “The results on Mrs. Lacroix’s tests came back.”

            “And?” He asked, still waiting for an answer.

            “It’s-“ she grimaced, “strange…and unpleasant. Her blood contained traces of psychoactive chemicals. I don’t know what side effects she might still experience, but it’s likely she thought the Overwatch members who found her were a hallucination, hence her violent reactions. But-“

            The door opened, and a young man peered in, holding translucent pictures in his hand. Angela thanked the man, took them, and flipped off the lights, plunging them both into darkness.

            “Athena, the light-board, please.”

            A large lighted board flickered to life, casting the office in an eerie blue-white glow. Angela clipped the X-rays of what he assumed to be Amelie’s skull to the board and waved Gerard closer. He noticed, with a sudden churning sensation in his gut, that the skull was pockmarked with indentations like a golf-ball. He clutched at Angela’s desk.

            “What does it mean, Doctor?” He asked, wrapping numb hands around the trash can Angela placed gingerly on his lap, unable to tear his eyes away.

            “This,” she pointed to one of the divots, “Is what the medical industry calls a burr-hole. It’s used to gain direct access to the brain, like in the case of brain surgery or emergency relief of hydrocephaly. These holes heal over time, like any break in a bone, but at a much slower rate than skin, which is why they show up and entry wounds or scarring do not.” She turned to him and sat, her face pained. “I don’t know why Talon decided to cut burr-holes. But it’s evidence something happened to her during her long disappearance. She needs to stay at Overwatch HQ until we figure this out, or her presence could very well endanger you. Will you let me keep her under observation for everyone else’s safety?”

            “But why would they…” he choked on the words, bile rising in his throat. He squeezed the trashcan more tightly, swallowing vomit and tears.

            “Speculating what happened will only cause you more grief, Gerard. I wouldn’t think on it more than you have to.” She patted his knee. “I can help her. But you have to give me permission.”

            “Take it. Please. Just…bring her back to me.”

            “ I will do my best.” Angela stood. “Can I get you anything?”

            “Just…just tea.”

            She disappeared and returned a few minutes later with a steaming cup before exiting once more to check on Amelie. He sat in the half-gloom of the deserted office and drank without tasting, surrounded by echoing silence. He’d never liked tea much.

***********************

Still with me? Then welcome back!

 

Moira is going to disappear for a few chapters after this, but I hope to keep things interesting. 

 

I know this story as a whole has been a particularly difficult read, in the emotional sense, but I still hope you're enjoying it. Thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I decided to repost this. I've been working a LOT on this lately and figured, Hey, what the heck. Might as well throw this back up. 
> 
> As for the AUness of it, technically speaking Moira is not supposed to be an obvious member of Talon and Reaper is DEFINITELY not supposed to be a member of Talon at this point. So this is an AU. 
> 
> It hurt my soul to stop writing this, however, due to the effort I'd already put in it, so I'm tossing it up as an AU. Just be aware of that.
> 
> Also angst. SO MUCH ANGST. 
> 
> Hope you liked it. Yes, you, reader. Thanks for looking at this. It makes my day. :)


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